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Cooke, John Esten, 1830-1886 [1867], Wearing of the gray: being personal portraits, scenes and adventures of the war. (E.B. Treat and Co., New York) [word count] [eaf521T].
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PART I. PERSONAL PORTRAITS.

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These “Personal Portraits” were undertaken with the design
of making better known and understood the great actors in the
recent struggle who are the subjects of them.

It is a matter of grave importance that the illustrious figures
of the war should not be obscured by the mists of ignorance or
falsehood. Nor can they be. Dulness and slander do not long
blind the eyes of men; and sooner or later the light of truth
makes all things visible in their natural colours and proportions.
To the good work of placing upon record the actual truth in
relation to the lives and characters of Stuart and some other
noble soldiers of the Southern army, the writer of this page has
here brought a few of his recollections—aiming to draw these
“worthies” rather as they lived and moved, following their
various idiosyncrasies, than as they performed their “official”
duties on the public stage. This seemed best calculated to display
their real individuality—the embodiment of their personal
characteristics in a portrait with the pen, as a painter draws the
form and features of his sitter with the brush.

Such personal details of the characters of these eminent men
will not be uninteresting to the lovers of noble natures of whatever
“faction;” nor is the fondness for such particulars either
trivial or ignoble. They elucidate biography and history—which
are the same—for they present the likeness of the actor in the
drama, his character and endowments; and to know what great
men are, is better than to know what they perform. What Lee,
Jackson, Johnston, Stuart, and their associates accomplished,
history will record; how they looked, and moved, and spoke,

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will attract much less attention from the “historian of the
future.” The august muse of history will make her partial and
passionate, or fair and dignified, summary of the events of the
late war; will discuss the causas resum with learned philosophy;
and mete out in rounded periods what she thinks the due
amount of glory or shame to the actors, in gray or in blue. But
mean while the real personages disappear, and the colours fade;
figures become historical personages, not men. And events, too,
“suffer change.” They are fused in the mass; generalization
replaces the particular incident as it does the impressive trait;—
the terrible dust of “official documents” obscures personages,
characters, and events.

This is trite, but it is true; and the fact thus lamely stated is
one of the “chiefest spites of fate.” For what is the picture
worth unless drawn in its actual colours?—what the value of the
figures unless they are likenesses? The war just ended was not
an “official transaction,” only to be calmly narrated with dignified
generalization, philosophic reasoning, and commonplace
comment upon peace conferences, grand tacties, and the political
bearing of the result. It was a mighty drama, all life, passion,
movement, incident, and romance—a singular mèlange, wherein
tears, laughter, sighs and smiles, rapidly followed each other,
communicating to the bitter and determined struggle all the profound
interest of a tragedy whose scenes sweep on before the
spectator to the catastrophe. Nor were the actors in the tragedy
blocks of wood, or merely “official personages” playing coldly
their stage parts. They were men of flesh and blood, full of
high resolve, vehement passion; subject to hope, fear, rejoicing,
depression; but faithful through all to the great principles which
drove them on—principles in which they believed, and for
which they were ready to die. They were noble types of the
great Norman race of which the Southern people come—brave,
honourable, courteous, social; quick in resentment, proud, but
placable; and these conspicuous traits were everywhere seen in
their actions and daily lives.

The portraits here presented of a few of these men may be
rude and incomplete, but they are likenesses. No personage is

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spoken of with whom the writer was not more or less acquainted;
and every trait and incident set down was either observed
by himself or obtained from good authority. Invention has
absolutely nothing to do with the sketches; the writer has recorded
his recollections, and not his fancies. The “picturesque”
is a poor style of art, when truth is sacrificed to it. To represent
General Lee decked out in a splendid uniform bedizzened
with gold lace, on a “prancing steed,” and followed by a numerous
and glittering staff, might “tickle the ears of the groundlings;”
but the picture would be apt to “make the judicious
grieve.” The latter class would much prefer the actual man, in
his old gray cape and plain brown coat, riding, unattended, on
his sober iron-gray along the lines; would rather hear him say
amid the storm of Gettysburg, in his calm brave voice, “Never
mind; it is not your fault, General; I am to blame,” than read
the most eloquent sentences which the imagination could invent
for him. And in regard to others, the truth would possess an
equal superiority over fiction. Jackson was a noble human
soul; pure, generous, fearless, of imperial genius for making
war; but why claim for him personal graces, and the charm of
social humour? Stuart ranked justly with the two or three
greatest cavalry commanders of the world, and in his character
combined gaiety, courage, resolution, winning manners, and the
purest traits of the gentleman and Christian; but why draw the
gallant cavalier as utterly faultless, never moved by anger, ever
serious and devout as was Jackson? By such a process the
actual characters disappear; the real men, with faults and virtues,
grand traits and foibles, become mere lay-figures to hang
uniforms upon. The pictures should either be made likenesses,
or not be painted; events should be represented in their real
colours, or not at all.

These few words will explain the character of the sketches
here presented, and the theory upon which the writer has proceeded
in drawing them. They are conscientious “studies,” and
the result of an honest desire to elucidate the characters of their
subjects, who are here described in rapid outline as they lived
and moved before all eyes upon the stage of the war. Eulogy

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has not magnified them, as partisan rancour has not blackened
their adversaries. They appeared as they are here drawn to the
eyes of the writer; if the portraits are unfaithful, it is not because
he lacked the fairness, but wanted the ability, to “denote
them truly.”

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Eng by H.G.Lawrence, N.Y.
Engraved expressly for “Wearing of the Grey.”
E.B. Treat & Co. Publishers, 654 Broadway, N.Y.
[figure description] Illustration page, which depicts portraits of seven significant Confederate leaders: Gen. T. Ashby; Gen. G.T. Beauregard; Gen. J.A. Early; Gen. R.E. Lee; Major JNG. Pelham; Col. J.S. Mosby; Gen. W. Hampton. Scattered amongst the portraits are images of civil war battles.[end figure description]

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Stuart, chief of the Confederate cavalry in Virginia, was one
of the Dii Majores of the recent conflict—his career rather a
page from romance than a chapter of history. Everything
stirring, brilliant, and picturesque, seemed to centre in him.
There was about the man a flavour of chivalry and adventure
which made him more like a knight of the middle age than a
soldier of the prosaic nineteenth century, and it was less the
science than the poetry of war which he summed up and illustrated
in his character and career.

With the majority of those who took part in it, the late revolution
was a hard and bitter struggle, which they entered upon
resolutely, but with unconcealed distaste. To this soldier, however,
it seemed to be a splendid and exciting game, in which his
blood coursed joyously, and his immensely strong physical organization
found an arena for the display of all its faculties.
The affluent life of the man craved those perils and hardships
which flush the pulses and make the heart beat fast. A single
look at him was enough to convince anybody that Stuart loved
danger and adventure, and that the clear blue eyes of the soldier,
“with a frolic welcome took the thunder and the sunshine.”
He swung himself into the saddle, at the sound of the bugle, as

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the hunter springs on horseback; and at such moments his
cheeks glowed, and his huge moustache curled with enjoyment.
The romance and poetry of the hard trade of arms seemed first
to be inaugurated when this joyous cavalier, with his floating
plume and splendid laughter, appeared upon the great arena of
the war in Virginia.

This gay bearing of the man was plainly unaffected, and few
persons could resist its influence. There was about Stuart an
inspiration of joy and youth. The war was evidently like play
to him—and he accepted its most perilous scenes and cruellest
hardships with the careless abandon of a young knight-errant
seeking adventures. Nothing seemed strong enough to break
down his powerful organization of mind and body; and danger
only aroused and brought his full faculties into play. He greeted
it with ardour and defied it with his joyous laughter—leading his
column in desperate charges with a smile upon the lips. Others
might despond, but Stuart kept his good spirits; and while the
air around him was full of hissing balls and bursting shell, he
would hum his gay songs. In Culpeper the infantry were electrified
by the laughter and singing of Stuart as he led them in
the charge; and at Chancellorsville, where he commanded Jackson's
corps after that great man's fall, the infantry veterans as
they swept on, carrying line after line of breastworks at the point
of the bayonet, saw his plume floating in front—“like Henry of
Navarre's,” one of them said—and heard his sonorous voice
singing, “Old Joe Hooker, will you come out of the Wilderness!”

This curious spirit of boyish gaiety did not characterize him on
certain occasions only, but went with him always, surrounding
every movement of the man with a certain atmosphere of frolic
and abandon. Immense animal health and strength danced in
his eyes, gave elasticity to the motions of his person, and rang
in his contagious laughter. It was hard to realize that anything
could hurt this powerful machine, or that death could ever come
to him; and the perilous positions from which he had so often
escaped unharmed, appeared to justify the idea of his invulnerability.
Although he exposed his person recklessly in more

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than a hundred hot engagements, he was never wounded in any.
The resobud in his button-hole, which some child or girl had
given him, or rather say his mother's Bible, which he always
carried, seemed to protect him. Death appeared to shrink before
him and avoid him; and he laughed in the grim face, and
dared it for three years of reckless fighting, in which he seemed
every day to be trying to get himself killed.

His personal appearance coincided with his character. Everything
about the man was youthful, picturesque, and brilliant.
Lee, Jackson, and other eminent soldiers of the South, seemed
desirous of avoiding, in their dress and accoutrements every
species of display, and to aim at making themselves resemble
as closely as possible their brave soldiers, whose uniforms were
sadly deficient in military gewgaws. Stuart's taste was exactly
the opposite. He was as fond of colours as a boy or a girl. His
fighting jacket shone with dazzling buttons and was covered
with gold braid; his hat was looped up with a golden star, and
decorated with a black ostrich plume; his fine buff gauntlets
reached to the elbow; around his waist was tied a splendid yellow
silk sash, and his spurs were of pure gold. The stern Ironsides
of Cromwell would have sneered at this “frivolous boy”
as they sneered at Prince Rupert, with his scarlet cloak, his waving
plume, his white dog, and his twenty-three years—all the
more as Stuart had a white dog for a pet, wore a cape lined with
scarlet, had a plume in his hat, and—to complete the comparison—
is said to have belonged to that royal family of Stuarts
from which Rupert sprang.* Many excellent people did not
hesitate to take the Ironside view. They regarded and spoke
of Stuart as a trifling military fop—a man who had in some
manner obtained a great command for which he was wholly
unfit. They sneered at his splendid costume, his careless laughter,
his “love of ladies;” at his banjo-player, his flower-wreathed
horses, and his gay verses. The enemy were wiser. Buford,
Bayard, Pleasanton, Stoneman, and their associates, did not commit
that blunder. They had felt the heavy arm too often; and
knew too well the weight of that flower-encircled weapon.

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There were three other men who could never be persuaded
that Stuart was no cavalry officer, and who persisted in regarding
this boyish cavalier as their right-hand man—the “eye and
ear” of their armies. These men were Lee, Johnston, and Jackson.

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* Prince Rupert was the nephew of Charles I., and the son of Elizabeth Stuart

Stuart's great career can be alluded to but briefly here.
Years crammed with incident and adventure cannot be summed
up on a page.

He was twenty-seven when he resigned his first-lieutenancy
in the United States cavalry, and came to offer his sword to Virginia.
He was sprung from an old and honourable family there,
and his love of his native soil was strong. Upon his arrival he
was made lieutenant-colonel, and placed in command of the
cavalry on the Upper Potomac, where he proved himself so vigilant
a soldier that Johnston called him “the indefatigable Stuart,”
and compared him to “a yellow jacket,” which was “no
sooner brushed off than it lit back.” He had command of the
whole front until Johnston left the valley, when he moved with
the column to Manassas, and charged and broke the New York
Zouaves; afterwards held the front toward Alexandria, under
Beauregard; then came the hard falling back, the struggle upon
the Peninsula, the battle of Cold Harbour, and the advance which
followed into Maryland. Stuart was now a general, and laid
the foundation of his fame by the “ride around McClellan”
on the Chickahominy. Thenceforth he was the right hand of
Lee until his death.

The incidents of his career from the spring of 1862 to May,
1864, would fill whole volumes. The ride around McClellan;
the fights on the Rapidan; the night march to Catlett's, where
he captured General Pope's coat and official papers; the advance
to Manassas; the attack on Flint Hill; the hard rear-guard work
at South Mountain; holding the left at Sharpsburg; the circut
of McClellan again in Maryland; the bitter conflicts near Upperville
as Lee fell back; the fighting all along the slopes of the

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Blue Ridge; the “crowding 'em with artillery” on the night at
Fredericksburg; the winter march upon Dumfries; the battle
of Chancellorsville, where he commanded Jackson's corps; the
advance thereafter, and the stubbron conflict at Fleetwood Hill
on the 9th of June; the hard, obstinate fighting once more to
guard the flanks of Lee on his way to Gettysburg; the march
across the Potomac; the advance to within sight of Washington,
and the invasion of Pennsylvania, with the determined fights
at Hanovertown, Carlisle, and Gettysburg, where he met and
drove before him the crack cavalry of the Federal army; the
retreat thereafter before an enraged enemy; the continuous combats
of the mountain passes, and in the vicinity of Boonsboro';
the obstinate stand he made once more on the old ground around
Upperville as Lee again fell back; the heavy petites guerres of
Culpeper; the repulse of Custer when he attacked Charlottesville;
the expedition to the rear of General Meade when he
came over to Mine Run; the bitter struggle in the Wilderness
when General Grant advanced; the fighting all along the Po in
Spotsylvania; the headlong gallop past the South Anna, and
the bloody struggle near the Yellow Tavern, where the cavalier,
who had passed through a hundred battles untouched, came to
his end at last—these are a few of the pictures which rise up
before the mind's eye at those words, “the career of Stuart.” In
the brief space of a sketch like this, it is impossible to attempt
any delineation of these crowding scenes and events. They
belong to history, and will sooner or later be placed upon record—
for a thousand octavos cannot bury them as long as one forefinger
and thumb remains to write of them. All that is here
designed is a rough cartoon of the actual man—not a fancy
figure, the work of a eulogist, but a truthful likeness, however
poorly executed.

I have supposed that the reader would be more interested in
Stuart the man than in Stuart the Major-General commanding.
History will paint the latter—my page deals with the

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former chiefly. It is in dress, habits, the tone of the voice,
the demeanour in private, that men's characters are read; and
I have never seen a man who looked his character more perfectly
than Stuart.

He was the cavalier par excellence; and everything which
he did, or said, was “in character.” We know a clergyman
sometimes by his moderation, mild address, black coat, and
white cravat; a merchant by his quick movements and “business-like”
manner; a senator by his gravity; and a poet by
his dreamy eye. You saw in the same manner, at a single
glance, that Stuart was a cavalry-man—in his dress, voice, walk,
manner, everything. All about him was military; and, fine
as his costume undoubtedly was, it “looked like work.” There
was no little fondness, as I have said, for bright colours and
holiday display in his appearance; and he loved the parade,
the floating banner, the ring of the bugle, “ladies' eyes”—
all the glory, splendour, and brilliant colouring of life; but
the solider of hard fibre and hard work was under the gallant.
Some day a generation will come who will like to know all
about the famous “Jeb Stuart”—let me therefore limn him
as he appeared in the years 1862 and 1863.

His frame was low and athletic—close knit and of very great
strength and endurance, as you could see at a glance. His
countenance was striking and attracted attention—the forehead
broad, lofty, and indicating imagination; the nose prominent,
and inclining to “Roman,” with large and mobile nostrils;
the lips covered with a heavy brown moustache, curled upward
at the ends; the chin by a huge beard of the same colour,
which descended upon the wearer's breast. Such was the rather
brigandish appearance of Stuart—but I have omitted to notice
the eyes. They were clear, penetrating, and of a brilliant blue.
They could be soft or fiery—would fill with laughter or dart
flame. Anything more menacing than that flame, when Stuart
was hard pressed, it would be difficult to conceive; but the
prevailing expression was gay and laughing. He wore a brown
felt hat looped up with a star, and ornamented with an ebon
feather; a double-breasted jacket always open and buttoned

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back; gray waistcoat and pantaloons; and boots to the knee,
decorated with small spurs, which he wore even in dancing. To
proceed with my catalogue of the soldier's accoutrements: on
marches he threw over his shoulders his gray cavalry cape, and
on the pommel of his saddle was strapped an oil-cloth overall,
used as a protection in rain, which, instead of annoying him,
seemed to raise his spirits. In the midst of rain-storms, when
everybody was riding along grum and cowering beneath the
flood pouring down, he would trot on, head up, and singing
gaily. His arms were, a light French sabre, balanced by a pistol
in a black holster; his covering at night, a red blanket, strapped
in an oil-cloth behind the saddle. Such was the “outer man”
of Stuart in camp and field. His fondness for bright colours,
however, sometimes made him don additional decorations.
Among these was a beautiful yellow sash, whose folds he would
carefully wrap around his waist, skilfully tying the ends on the
left side so that the tassels fell full in view. Over this he would
buckle his belt; his heavy boots would be changed for a pair
equally high, but of bright patent leather, decorated with gold
thread; and then the gallant Jeb Stuart was ready to visit somebody.
This love of gay colours was shown in other ways. He
never moved on the field without his splendid red battle-flag; and
more than once this prominent object, flaunting in the wind,
drew the fire of the enemy's artillery on himself and staff.
Among flowers, he preferred the large dazzling “Giant of Battles,”
with its blood-red disk. But he loved all blooms for their
brilliance. Lent was not his favourite season. Life in his eyes
was best when it was all flowers, bright colours, and carnival.

He was a bold and expert rider, and stopped at nothing.
Frequently the headlong speed with which he rode saved him
from death or capture—as at Sharpsburg, where he darted close
along the front of a Federal regiment which rose and fired on
him. The speed of his horse was so great that not a ball struck
him. At Hanovertown, in 1863, and on a hundred occasions,
he was chased, when almost unattended, by Federal cavalry; but,
clearing fence and ravine, escaped. He was a “horse-man” in
his knowledge of horses, but had no “passion” for them;

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preferred animals of medium size, which wheeled, leaped, and
moved rapidly; and, mounted upon his “Skylark,” “Star of the
East,” “Lady Margaret,” or “Lily of the Valley,” he was the
picture of a bold cavalier, prepared to go into a charge, or to
take a gallop by moonlight—ready for a fight or a frolic.

It was out of the saddle, however, that Stuart was most attractive.
There he was busy; in his tent, when his work was once
over, he was as insouciant as a boy. Never was there a human
being of readier laughter. He dearly loved a joke, and would
have one upon everybody. They were not mild either. He
loved a horse-joke, and a horse-laugh. But the edge of his
satire, although keen, was never envenomed. The uproarious
humour of the man took away anything like sarcasm from his
wit, and he liked you to “strike back.” What are called “great
people” sometimes break their jests upon lesser personages, with
a tacit understanding that the great personage shall not be jested
at in return. Such deference to his rank was abhorrent to Stuart.
He jested roughly, but you were welcome to handle him
as roughly in return. If you could turn the laugh upon him,
you were perfectly welcome so to do, and he never liked you
the less for it. In winter-quarters his tent was a large affair,
with a good chimney and fireplace; in the summer, on active
service, a mere breadth of canvas stretched over rails against a
tree, and open at both ends. Or he had no tent, and slept under
a tree. The canvas “fly” only came into requisition when he
rested for a few days from the march. Under this slight shelter,
Stuart was like a king of rangers. On one side was his chair
and desk; on the other, his blankets spread on the ground:
at his feet his two setters, “Nip” and “Tuck,” whom he had
brought out of Culpeper, on the saddle, as he fell back before
the enemy. When tired of writing, he would throw himself
upon his blankets, play with his pets, laugh at the least provocation,
and burst into some gay song.

He had a strong love for music, and sang, himself, in a clear,
sonorous, and correct voice. His favourites were: “The bugle
sang truce, for the night cloud had lowered;” “The dew is on
the blossom;” “Sweet Evelina,” and “Evelyn,” among pathetic

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songs; but comic ones were equal or greater favourites with him:
“If you get there before I do;” “The old gray horse;” “Come
out of the wilderness,” and “If you want to have a good time,
join the cavalry,” came from his lips in grand uproarious merriment,
the very woods ringing with the strains. This habit
of singing had always characterized him. From the days in the
valley when he harassed Paterson so, with his omnipresent cavalry,
he had fought and sung alternately. Riding at the head
of his long column, bent upon some raid, or advancing to attack
the enemy, he would make the forest resound with his sonorous
songs; and a gentleman who met him one day, thus singing in
front of his men, said that the young cavalier was his perfect
ideal of a knight of romance. It might almost, indeed, be said
that music was his passion, as Vive la joie! might have been
regarded as his motto. His banjo-players, Sweeny, was the constant
inmate of his tent, rode behind him on the march, and
went with him to social gatherings. Stuart wrote his most important
dispatches and correspondence with the rattle of the gay
instrument stunning everybody, and would turn round from his
work, burst into a laugh, and join uproariously in Sweeny's
chorus. On the march, the banjo was frequently put in requisition;
and those “grave people” who are shocked by “frivolity”
must have had their breath almost taken away by this extraordinary
spectacle of the famous General Stuart, commanding all
the cavalry of General Lee's army, moving at the head of his
hard-fighting corps with a banjo-player rattling behind him.
But Stuart cared little for the “grave people.” He fought
harder than they did, and chose to amuse himself in his own
way. Lee, Johnston, and Jackson, had listened to that banjo
without regarding it as frivolous; and more than once it had
proved a relaxation after the exhausting cares of command. So
it rattled on still, and Stuart continued to laugh, without caring
much about “the serious family” class. He had on his side
Lee, Jackson, and the young ladies who danced away gaily
to Sweeny's music—what mattered it whether Aminadab Sleek,
Esq., approved or disapproved!

The “young lady” element was an important one with Stuart.

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Never have I seen a purer, more knightly, or more charming
gallantry than his. He was here, as in all his life, the Christian
gentleman, the loyal and consistent professor of religion; but
with this delicacy of the chevalier was mingled the gaiety of
the boy. He was charmed, and charmed in return. Ladies
were his warmest admirers—for they saw that under his laughing
exterior was an earnest nature and a warm heart. Everything
drew them towards him. The romance of his hard career,
the adventurous character of the man, his mirth, wit, gallantry,
enthusiasm, and the unconcealed pleasure which he showed in
their society, made him their prime favourite. They flocked
around him, gave him flowers, and declared that if they could
they would follow his feather and fight with him. With all
this, Stuart was delighted. He gave them positions on his staff,
placed the flowers in his button-hole, kissed the fair hands that
presented them, and if the cheek was near the hand, he would
laugh and kiss that too. The Sleek family cried out at this,
and rolled their eyes in horror—but it is hard to please the
Sleek family. Stuart was married, a great public character, had
fought in defence of these young ladies upon a hundred battle-fields,
and was going to die for them. It does not seem so huge
an enormity as the Sleeks everywhere called it—that while the
blue eyes flashed, the eyes of women should give back their
splendour; while the lips were warm, they should not shrink
from them. Soon the eyes were to grow dim, and the lips
cold.

Stuart was best loved by those who knew him best; and it
may here be recorded that his devotion towards his young wife
and children attracted the attention of every one. His happiest
hours were spent in their society, and he never seemed so well
satisfied as when they were in his tent. To lie upon his campcouch
and play with one of his children, appeared to be the
summit of felicity with him; and when, during the hard falling
back near Upperville, in the fall of 1862, the news came of the
death of his little daughter Flora, he seemed almost overcome.
Many months afterwards, when speaking of her, the tears
gushed to his eyes, and he murmured in a broken voice; “I will

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never get over it—never!” He seemed rough and hard to those
who only saw him now and then; but the persons who lived
with him knew his great kindness of heart. Under that careless,
jesting, and often curt demeanour, was a good, true heart.
The fibre of the man was tough under all strain, and his whole
organization was masculine; but he exhibited, sometimes, a softness
of feeling which might almost be called tenderness. A
marked trait of his character was this: that if he had offended
anybody, or wounded their feelings, he could never rest until he
had in some way made amends. His temper was irascible at
times, and he would utter harsh words; but the flaming eyes
soon softened, the arrogant manner disappeared. In ten minutes
his arm would probably be upon the shoulder or around the
neck of the injured individual, and his voice would become
caressante. This was almost amusing, and showed his good
heart. Like a child, he must “make up” with people he had
unintentionally offended; and he never rested until he succeeded.
Let it not be understood, however, that this placability
of temperament came into play in “official” affairs. There
Stuart was as hard as adamant, and nothing moved him. He
never forgave opposition to his will, or disobedience of his
orders; and though never bearing malice, was a thoroughly
good hater. His prejudices were strong; and when once he had
made up his mind deliberately, nothing would change him. He
was immovable and implacable; and against these offenders he
threw the whole weight of his powerful will and his high position,
determined to crush them. That, however, was in public
and official matters. In all the details of his daily life he was
thoroughly lovable, as many persons still living can testify.
He was the most approachable of major-generals, and jested
with the private soldiers of his command as jovially as though
he had been one of themselves. The men were perfectly unconstrained
in his presence, and treated him more like the chief
huntsman of a hunting party than as a major-general. His
staff were greatly attached to him, for he sympathized in all their
affairs as warmly as a brother, and was constantly doing them
some “good turn.” When with them off duty, he dropped

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every indication of rank, and was as much a boy as the youngest
of them—playing marbles, quoits, or snowball, with perfect
abandon and enjoyment. Most charming of all in the eyes of
those gentlemen was the fact that he would not hesitate to
decline invitations to entertainments, on the plainly stated
ground that “his staff were not included”—after which I need
give myself no further trouble to explain why he was the most
beloved of generals!

I have spoken of his reckless exposure of his person in battle.
It would convey a better idea of his demeanour under fire
to say that he seemed unaware of the presence of danger. This
air of indifference was unmistakable. When brave men were
moving restlessly, or unconsciously “ducking” to avoid the bullets
showering around them, Stuart sat his horse, full front to
the fire, with head up, form unmoved—a statue of unconsciousness.
It would be difficult to conceive of a greater coolness and
indifference than he exhibited. The hiss of balls, striking down
men around him, or cutting off locks of his hair and piercing
his clothes, as at Fredericksburg, did not seem to attract his attention.
With shell bursting right in his face and maddening
his horse, he appeared to be thinking of something else. In
other men what is called “gallantry” is generally seen to be the
effect of a strong will; in Stuart it seemed the result of indifference.
A stouter-hearted cavalier could not be imagined; and if
his indifference gave way, it was generally succeeded by gaiety.
Sometimes, however, all the tiger was aroused in him. His face
flushed; his eyes darted flame; his voice grew hoarse and strident.
This occurred in the hot fight of Fleetwood Hill, in June,
1863, when he was almost surrounded by the heavy masses of
the enemy's cavalry, and very nearly cut off; and again near
Upperville, later in the same year, when he was driven back,
foot by foot, to the Blue Ridge. Stuart's face was stormy at
such moments, and his eyes like “a devouring fire.” His voice
was curt, harsh, imperious, admitting no reply. The veins in
his forehead grew black, and the man looked “dangerous.” If
an officer failed him at such moments, he never forgave him; as
the man who attracted his attention, or who volunteered for a

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forlorn hope, was never forgotten. In his tenacious memory,
Stuart registered everybody; and in his command, his word, bad
or good, largely set up or pulled down.

To dwell still for a few moments upon the private and personal
character of the man—he possessed some accomplishments
unusual in famous soldiers. He was an excellent writer, and his
general orders were frequently very striking for their point and
eloquence. That in which he called on his men after the ride
around McClellan to “avenge Latanè!” and that on the death
of Major Pelham, his chief of artillery, are good examples.
There was something of the Napoleonic fervour in these compositions,
and, though dashed off rapidly, they were pointed, correct,
and without bombast. His letters, when collected, will be
found clear, forcible, and often full of grace, elegance, and wit.
He occasionally wrote verses, especially parodies, for which he
had a decided turn. Some of these were excellent. His letters,
verses, and orders, were the genuine utterances of the man; not
laboured or “stiff,” but spontaneous, flowing, and natural. He
had in conversation some humour, but more wit; and of badinage
it might almost be said that he was a master. His repartee was
excellent, his address ever gay and buoyant, and in whatever
society he was thrown he never seemed to lose that unaffected
mirthfulness which charms us more perhaps than all other qualities
in an associate. I need scarcely add that this uniform gaiety
was never the result of the use of stimulants. Stuart never drank
a single drop of any intoxicating liquid in his whole life, except
when he touched to his lips the cup of sacramental wine at
the communion. He made that promise to his mother in his
childhood, and never broke it. “If ever I am wounded,” he
said to me one day, “don't let them give me any whiskey or
brandy.” His other habits were as exemplary. I never saw him
touch a card, and he never dreamed of uttering an oath under
any provocation—nor would he permit it at his quarters. He
attended church whenever he could, and sometimes, though not
often, had service at his headquarters. One day a thoughtless
officer, who did not “know his man,” sneered at preachers in his
presence, and laughed at some one who had entered the

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ministry. Stuart's face flushed; he exhibited unmistakable displeasure,
and said: “I regard the calling of a clergyman as the
noblest in which any human being can engage.” This was the
frivolous, irreverent, hard-drinking personage of some people's
fancies—the man who was sneered at as little better than a
reprobate by those whom he had punished, and who, therefore,
hated and slandered him!

Such, in brief outline, was this “Flower of Cavaliers,” as he
moved in private, before the eyes of friends, and lived his life
of gentleman. An estimate of the military and intellectual
calibre of the man remains to be made—a rapid delineation of
those traits of brain and nerve combined which made him the
first cavalry officer of his epoch—I had nearly written of any
epoch.

Out of his peculiar sphere he did not display marked
ability. His mind was naturally shrewd, and, except in some
marked instances, he appeared to possess an instinctive knowledge
of men. But the processes of his brain, on ordinary occasions,
exhibited rather activity and force than profoundness of
insight. His mental organization seemed to be sound and practical
rather than deep and comprehensive. He read little when
I knew him, and betrayed no evidences of wide culture. His
education was that of the gentleman rather than the scholar.
“Napoleon's Maxims,” a translation of Jomini's Treatise on
War, and one or two similar works, were all in which he
appeared to take pleasure. His whole genius evidently lay in
the direction of his profession, and even here many persons
doubted the versatility of his faculties. It will remain an interesting
problem whether he would have made a great infantry
commander. He was confident of his own ability; always
resented the dictum that he was a mere “cavalry officer;” and I
believe, at one time, it was the purpose of the Confederate authorities
to place him in command of a corps of infantry. Upon
the question of his capacity, in this sphere, there will probably

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be many opinions. At Chancellorsville, when he succeeded
Jackson, the troops, although quite enthusiastic about him, complained
that he had led them too recklessly against artillery;
and it is hard for those who knew the man to believe that, as an
army commander, he would ever have consented to a strictly
defensive campaign. Fighting was a necessity of his blood, and
the slow movements of infantry did not suit his genius. With
an army under him, it is probable that he would either have
achieved magnificent successes or sustained overwhelming
defeats. I confess I thought him equal to anything in his profession,
but competent judges doubted it. What every one
agreed about, however, was his supreme genius for fighting
cavalry.

He always seemed to me to be intended by nature for this
branch of the service. Some men are born to write great works,
others to paint great pictures, others to rule over nations. Stuart
was born to fight cavalry. It was only necessary to be with him
in important movements or on critical occasions, to realize this.
His instinct was unfailing, his coup d'oeil that of the master. He
was a trained soldier, and had truly graduated at West Point,
but it looked like instinct rather than calculation—that rapid
and unerring glance which took in at once every trait of the
ground upon which he was operating, and anticipated every
movement of his adversary. I never knew him to blunder.
His glance was as quick, and reached its mark as surely as the
lightning. Action followed like the thunder. In moments of
great emergency it was wonderful to see how promptly he swept
the whole field, and how quickly his mind was made up. He
seemed to penetrate, as by a species of intuition, every design
of his opponent, and his dispositions for attack or defence were
those of a master-mind. Sometimes nothing but his unconquerable
resolution, and a sort of desperation, saved him from
destruction; but in almost every critical position which he was
placed in during that long and arduous career, it was his wonderful
acumen, no less than his unshrinking nerve, which
brought him out victorious.

This nerve had in it something splendid and chivalric. It

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never failed him for a moment on occasions which would have
paralysed ordinary commanders. An instance was given in
October, 1863. Near Auburn his column was surrounded by
the whole of General Meade's army, then retiring before General
Lee. Stuart massed his command, kept cool, listened hour
after hour as the night passed on, to the roll of the Federal
artillery and the heavy tramp of their infantry within a few
hundred yards of him, and at daylight placed his own guns in
position and made a furious attack, under cover of which he
safely withdrew. An earlier instance was his raid in rear of
General McClellan, in June, 1862, when, on reaching the lower
Chickahominy, he found the stream swollen and unfordable,
while at every moment an enraged enemy threatened to fall
upon his rear with an overpowering force of infantry, cavalry,
and artillery. Although the men were much disheartened, and
were gloomy enough at the certain fate which seemed to await
them, Stuart remained cool and unmoved. He intended, he said
afterwards, to “die game” if attacked, but he believed he could
extricate his command. In four hours he had built a bridge,
singing as he worked with the men; and his column, with the
guns, defiled across just as the enemy rushed on them. A third
instance was the second ride around McClellan in Maryland,
October, 1862; when coming to the Monocacy he found General
Pleasanton, with a heavy force of cavalry, infantry, and artillery,
in his path, but unhesitatingly attacked and cut his way through.
Still another at Jack's Shop, where he charged both ways—the
column in front, and that sent to cut him off—and broke
through. Still another at Fleetwood Hill, where he was
attacked in front, flank, and rear, by nearly 17,000 infantry and
cavalry, but charging from the centre outwards, swept them
back, and drove them beyond the Rappahannock.

Upon these occasions and twenty others, nothing but his stout
nerve saved him from destruction. This quality, however,
would not have served him without the quick military instinct
of the born soldier. His great merit as a commander was, that
his conception of “the situation” was as rapid and just as his
nerve was steady. His execution was unfaltering, but the brain

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had devised clearly what was to be done before the arm was
raised to strike. It was this which distinguished Stuart from
others—the promptness and accuracy of his brain work “under
pressure,” and at moments when delay was destruction. The
faculty would have achieved great results in any department of
arms; but in cavalry, the most “sudden and dangerous” branch
of the service, where everything is decided in a moment as it
were, it made Stuart one of the first soldiers of his epoch.
With equal—or not largely unequal—forces opposed to him, he
was never whipped. More than once he was driven back, and
two or three times “badly hurt;” but it was not the superior
genius of Buford, Stoneman, Pleasanton, or other adversaries,
which achieved those results. It was the presence of an obstacle
which his weapon could not break. Numbers were too much
for brain and acumen, and reckless fighting. The hammer was
shattered by the anvil.

Stuart was forced, by the necessities of the struggle, the nature
of the country, and the all-work he had to perform, to depend
much upon sharp-shooting. But he preferred pure cavalry
fighting. He fought his dismounted skirmishers with obstinacy,
and was ever present with them, riding alone the line, a conspi
cuous target for the enemy's bullets, cheering them on. But it
was in the legitimate sphere of cavalry that he was greatest.
The skirmishing was the “hard work.” He had thus to keep
a dangerous enemy off General Lee's flanks as the infantry
moved through the gaps of the Blue Ridge towards Pennsylvania,
or to defend the line of the Rappahannock, when some Federal
commander with thousands of horsemen, “came down like a
wolf” on General Lee's little “fold.” It was here, I think, that
Stuart vindicated his capacity to fight infantry, for such were
the dismounted cavalry; and he held his ground before swarming
enemies with a nerve and persistence which resembled Jackson's.

It was in the raid, the flank movement, the charge, and the

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falling back, with cavalry proper, however, that he exhibited the
most conspicuous traits of the soldier. The foundation of his
successes here was a wonderful energy. The man was a war-machine
which never flagged. Day or night he was ready to
mount at the sound of the bugle. Other commanders, like the
bonus Homerus, drowsed at times, and nodded, suffering their
zeal to droop; but Stuart was sleepless, and General Lee could
count on him at any instant. To that inexhaustible physical
strength was united a mentality as untiring. The mind, like the
body, could “go day and night,” and needed no rest. When all
around him were broken down, Stuart still remained fresh and
unwearied; ready for council or for action; to give his views
and suggest important movements, or to march and make an
attack. His organization was of the “hair-trigger” kind, and
the well-tempered spring never lost its elasticity. He would
give orders, and very judicious ones, in his sleep—as on the
night of the second Manassas. When utterly prostrated by
whole days and nights spent in the saddle, he would stop by the
roadside, lie down without pickets or videttes, even in an enemy's
country—as once he did coming from Carlisle, Pennsylvania, in
July, 1863—sleep for an hour, wrapped in his cape and resting
against the trunk of a tree, and then mount again, as fresh
apparently, as if he had slumbered from sunset to dawn.

As his physical energies thus never seemed to droop, or
sprang with a rebound from the weight on them, so he never
desponded. A stouter heart in the darkest hour I have never
seen. No clouds could depress him or disarm his courage. He
met ill fortune with a smile, and drove it before him with his
gallant laughter. Gloom could not live in his presence, and the
whole race of “croakers” were shamed into hopefulness by his
inspiring words and demeanour. Defeat and disaster seemed to
make him stronger and more resolute, and he rose under
pressure. In moments of the most imminent peril to the very
existence of his command, I have seen him drum carelessly with
his fingers on the knee thrown over the pommel of his saddle,
reflect for an instant without any trace of excitement, and then
give the order to cut a path through the enemy, without the

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change of a muscle. At such moments, it was plain that Stuart
coolly made up his mind to do his best, and leave the rest to the
chances of arms. His manner said as plainly as any word: “I
am going to make my way out or die—the thing is decided upon—
why make a to-do about it?” So perfect was his equanimity
upon such occasions, that persons ignorant of the extent of the
peril could not realize that any existed. It was hard to believe,
in presence of this “heart of oak,” with his cool and indifferent
manner, his composed tones and careless smile, that death or
capture stared the command in the face. And yet these were
just the occasions when Stuart's face of bronze was most unmoved.
Peril brought out his strength. The heaviest clouds
must obscure the landscape before his splendid buoyancy and
“heart of hope” were fully revealed. That stout heart seemed
invincible, and impending ruin could not shake it. I have seen
him strung, aroused, his eye flaming, his voice hoarse with the
mingled joy and passion of battle; but have never seen him
flurried or cast down, much less paralysed by a disaster. When
not rejoicing like the hunter on the traces of the game, he was
cool, resolute, and determined, evidently “to do or die.” The
mens œqua in arduis shone in the piercing blue eye, and his undaunted
bearing betrayed a soul which did not mean to yield—
which might be crushed and shattered, but would not bend.
When pushed hard and hunted down by a swarm of foes, as he
was more than once, Stuart presented a splendid spectacle. He
met the assault like an athlete of the Roman amphitheatre, and
fought with the ferocity of a tiger. He looked “dangerous”
at such moments; and those adversaries who knew him best,
advanced upon their great opponent thus standing at bay, with a
caution which was born of experience.

These observations apply with especial justice to the various
occasions when Stuart held with his cavalry cordon the country
north of the Rappahannock and east of the Blue Ridge, while
General Lee either advanced or retired through the gaps of the
mountains. The work which he did here will remain among his
most important services. He is best known to the world by his
famous “raids,” as they were erroneously called, by his circuits

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of McClellan's army in Virginia and in Maryland, and other
movements of a similar character. This, however, was not his
great work. He will live in history as the commander of Lee's
cavalry, and for the great part he played in that leader's most
important movements. What Lee designed when he moved
Northward, or fell back from the valley, it was a matter of the
utmost interest to the enemy to know, and persistent efforts were
made by them to strike the Confederate flank and discover.
Stuart was, however, in the way with his cavalry. The road to
the Blue Ridge was obstructed; and somewhere near Middleburg,
Upperville, or Paris, the advancing column would find the
wary cavalier. Then took place an obstinate, often desperate
struggle—on Stuart's part to hold his ground; on the enemy's
part to break through the cordon. Crack troops—infantry,
cavalry, and artillery—were sent upon this important work,
and the most determined officers of the United States Army
commanded them.

Then came the tug of war. Stuart must meet whatever force
was brought against him, infantry as well as cavalry, and match
himself with the best brains of the Federal army in command
of them. It was often “diamond cut diamond.” In the fields
around Upperville, and everywhere along the road to Ashby's
Gap, raged a war of giants. The infantry on both sides heard
the distant roar of the artillery crowning every hill, and thought
the cavalry was skirmishing a little. The guns were only the
signal of a hand-to-hand struggle. Desperate charges were
made upon them; sabres clashed, carbines banged; in one
great hurly-burly of rushing horses, ringing sabres, cracking
pistols, and shouts which deafened, the opposing columns clashed
together. If Stuart broke them, he pressed them hotly, and
never rested until he swept them back for miles. If they broke
Stuart, he fell back with the obstinate ferocity of a bull-dog;
fought with his sharpshooters in every field, with his Horse Artillery
upon every knoll; and if they “crowded him” too closely
he took command of his column, and went at them with the
sabre, resolved to repulse them or die. It was upon this great
theatre that he displayed all his splendid faculties of nerve,

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judgment, dash, and obstinacy—his quickness of conception,
rapidity of decision, and that fire of onset before which few
opponents could stand. The infantry did not know much about
these hot engagements, and cherished the flattering view that they
did all the fighting. General Lee, however, knew accurately
what was done, and what was not done. In Spotsylvania, after
Stuart's fall, he exclaimed: “If Stuart only were here! I can
scarcely think of him without weeping.”

The great cavalier had protected the Southern flanks upon a
hundred movements; guarded the wings upon many battle-fields,
penetrated the enemy's designs, and given General Lee information
in every campaign; and now when the tireless brain was
still, and the piercing eyes were dim, the country began to comprehend
the full extent of the calamity at Yellow Tavern, in
May, 1864, and to realize the irreparable loss sustained by the
cause when this bulwark fell.

I have noticed Stuart's stubbornness, nerve, and coolness. His
dash and impetuosity in the charge have scarcely been alluded
to, and yet it was these characteristics of the man which chiefly
impressed the public mind. On a former page he has been compared
to Rupert, the darling of love and war, who was never so
well satisfied as when dashing against the Roundhead pikes and
riding down his foes. Stuart seems to have inherited that trait
of the family blood—for it seems tolerably well established that
he and Rupert were descended from the same stock, and scions
of that family which has given to the world men of brain and
courage, as well as faineans and libertines. To notice briefly
this not uninteresting point, the “family likeness” in the traits
of Stuart and Prince Rupert is very curious. Both were utterly
devoted to a principle which was their life-blood—in Rupert it
was the love of royalty, in Stuart the love of Virginia. Both
were men of the most impetuous temper, chafing at opposition,
and ready at any instant to match themselves against their adversaries,
and conquer or die. Both were devoted to the “love of

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ladies,” gallant to the echo; of a proud and splendid loyalty to
their word; of unshrinking courage; kind and compassionate
in temper, gay and smiling in address; fonder of fighting than
of looking to the commissariat; adored by their men, who
approached them without fear of a repulse; cavalry-men in every
drop of their blood; fond of brilliant colours, splendid pageants,
the notes of the bugle, the glitter of arms: Rupert with his
snowy plume, Stuart with his black one;—both throwing over
their shoulders capes of dazzling scarlet, unworn by men who
are not attached to gay colours; both taking a white dog for a
pet; both proud, gay, unswerving, indomitable, disdainful of
low things, passionately devoted to glory; both men in brain
and character at an age when others are mere boys; both famous
before thirty—and for ever—such were the points of resemblance
between these two men. Those familiar with the character of
the greatest cavalry-man of the English struggle, and with the
traits of Stuart, the most renowned of the recent conflict, will
not fail to see the likeness.

But I pass to “Stuart in the charge.” Here the man was
superb. It was in attack, after all, that his strongest faculties
were exhibited. Indeed, the whole genius and temperament of
the Virginian were for advancing, not retreating. He could fall
back stubbornly, as has been shown; and he certainly did so in
a masterly manner, disputing every inch of ground with his
adversary, and giving way to an enemy's advance under bloody
protest. At these times he displayed the obstinate temper of the
old Ironsides of Cromwell, when they retired in serried ranks,
ready to turn as they slowly retreated, and draw blood with their
iron claws. But when advancing upon an adversary—more
than all in the impetuous charge—Stuart was no longer the
Roundhead; he was the Cavalier. Cavalier he was by birth
and breeding and temperament; and he sprang to meet an
enemy, as Rupert drove forward in the hot struggle of the past
in England. You could see, then, that Stuart was in his element.
Once having formed his column for the charge, and given
his ringing order to “Form in fours! draw sabre!” it was neck
or nothing. When he thus “came to the sabre,” there was no

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such word as fail with him. Once in motion to hurl his column
against his adversary, he seemed to act upon the Scriptural precept
to forget those things which were behind, and press on to
those which were before. That was the enemy in front; and to
ride over, and cut right and left among them, was the work
before him. At such moments there was something grand in
the magnificent fire and rush of the soldier. He seemed strong
enough to ride down a world. Only a glance was needed to
tell you that this man had made up his mind to break through
and trample under foot what opposed him, or “die trying.”
His men knew this; and, when he took personal command of
the column, as he most often did, prepared for tough work. His
occasional roughness of address to both officers and men had made
him bitter enemies, but the admiration which he aroused was
unbounded. The men were often heard to say, in critical places:
“There goes old Jeb to the front, boys; it's all right.” And an
officer whom he had offended, and who hated him bitterly,
declared with an oath that he was the greatest cavalry commander
that had ever lived. The reported words of General
Sedgwiek, of the United States Army, may be added here:
“Stuart is the greatest cavalry officer ever foaled in North
America.”

The impetuosity here noted was undoubtedly one of the most
striking traits of the man. In a charge, Stuart seemed on fire,
and was more the Chief of Squadron than the Corps Commander.
He estimated justly his own value as a fighting man, when he
said one day: “My proper place would be major of artillery;”
and it is certain that in command of a battalion of field-pieces,
he would have fought until the enemy were at the very
muzzles of his guns. But in the cavalry he had even a better
field for his love of close fighting. To come to the sabre best
suited his fiery organization, and he did come to it, personally,
on many occasions. He preferred saying, “Come on” to “Go
on.” The men declared that he was reckless, but no one could
say that he had ever sent his column where he was not ready to
go himself. If he made a headlong and determined attack upon
an overpowering force—a thing common with him—he was in

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front himself, or fighting among the men. He never seemed to
feel, as far as my observation went, that his life was any more
valuable than that of the humblest private soldier. After one
of these occasions of reckless exposure of himself, I said to him:
“General, you ought not to put yourself in the way of the
bullets so; some day you will be killed.” He sighed and
replied: “Oh, I reckon not; but if I am, they will easily find
somebody to fill my place.” He had evidently determined to
spend and be spent in the Southern struggle, which had aroused
his most passionate sympathies. This love of native land came
to add a magnificent fervour to the natural combativeness of the
man. As a “free lance,” Stuart would have been careless of
his person; but in the Southern struggle he was utterly
reckless.

This indifference to danger was evidently a trait of blood, and
wholly unaffected. Nor, for a long time, did his incessant exposure
of himself bring him so much as a scratch. On all the
great battle-fields of Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania, as
well as in the close and bitter conflicts of his cavalry at Fleetwood,
Auburn, Upperville, Middleburg, South Mountain,
Monocacy, Williamsport, Shepherdstown, Paris, Barbee's, Jeffersonton,
Culpeper Court-House, Brandy, Kelly's Ford, Spotsylvania—
in these, and a hundred other hotly-contested actions,
he was in the very thickest of the fight, cheering on the sharpshooters,
directing his artillery, or leading his column in the
charge, but was never hurt. Horses were shot under him, bullets
struck his equipments, pierced his clothes, or cut off curls of
his hair, as at Fredericksburg, but none ever wounded him. In
the closest melée of clashing sabres the plume of Stuart was
unscathed; no sword's edge ever touched him. He seemed to
possess a charmed life, and to be invulnerable, like Achilles.
Shell, canister, and round-shot tore their way through the ranks
around him, overthrowing men and horses—many a brave fellow
at his side fell, pierced by the hissing bullets of Federal carbines—
but Stuart, like Rupert, never received a wound. The ball
which struck and laid him low at the Yellow Tavern on that
black day of May, 1864, was the first which touched him in the

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war. In a hundred battles they had passed to the left and right
of him, sparing him.

The foregoing presents as accurate an outline of Stuart as the
present writer, after a close association with him for two or three
years, could draw. No trait is feigned or fanciful, and the picture
is not exaggerated, though it may seem so to some. The
organization of this man was exceptional and very remarkable.
The picture seems a fancy piece, perhaps, but it is the actual
portrait. The gaiety, nerve, courage, dash, and stubborn resolution
of that man were as great as here described. These were
the actual traits which made him fill so great a space in the public
eye; and as what he effected was not “done in a corner,” so
what he was became plain to all.

He was hated bitterly by some who had felt the weight of his
hot displeasure at their shortcomings, and some of these people
tried to traduce and slander him. They said he was idle and
negligent of his duties—he, the hardest worker and most wary
commander I ever saw. They said, in whispers behind his
back—in that tone which has been described as “giggle-gabble”—
that he thought more of dancing, laughing, and trifling with
young ladies than of his military work, when those things were
only the relaxations of the man after toil. They said that ladies
could wheedle and cajole him—when he arrested hundreds,
remained inexorable to their petitions, and meted out to the
“fairest eyes that ever have shone” the strictest military justice.
They said that he had wreaths of flowers around his horse, and
was “frolicking” with his staff at Culpeper Court-House, so
that his headquarters on Fleetwood Hill were surprised and captured
in June, 1863, when he had not been at the Court-House
for days; sent off every trace of his headquarters at dawn, six
hours before the enemy advanced; and was ready for them at
every point, and drove them back with heavy loss beyond the
river. In like manner the Sleeks sneered at his banjo, sneered
at his gay laughter, sneered at his plume, his bright colours, and

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his merry songs. The same good friends invented stories of
rebukes he had incurred from General Lee, when he uniformly
received from that great friend and commander the highest evidences
of regard and confidence. These winged arrows, shot in
secret by the hand of calumny, which in plain Saxon are called
lies, accompanied Stuart everywhere at one period of his career;
but the Southern people could not be brought to believe them.
They flushed the face of the proud and honest cavalier, sometimes,
and made the blue eyes flash; but what could he do?
The calumnies were nameless; their authors slunk into shadow,
and shrank from him. So he ended by laughing at them, as the
country did, and going on his way unmindful of them. He
answered slander by brave action—calumny by harder work,
more reckless exposure of himself, and by grander achievements.
Those secret enemies might originate the falsehoods aimed at
him from their safe refuge in some newspaper office, or behind
some other “bomb-proof” shelter—he would fight. That was
his reply to them, and the scorn extinguished them. The honest
gentleman and great soldier was slandered, and he lived down
the slander—fighting it with his sword and his irreproachable
life, not with his tongue.

When death came to him in the bloom of manhood, and the
flush of a fame which will remain one of the supremest glories of
Virginia, Stuart ranked with the preux chevalier Bayard, the
knight “without reproach or fear.”

The brief and splendid career in which he won his great
renown, and that name of the “Flower of Cavaliers,” has
scarcely been touched on in this rapid sketch. The arduous
work which made him so illustrious has not been described—I
have been able to give only an outline of the man. That picture
may be rude and hasty, but it is a likeness. This was
Stuart. The reader must have formed some idea of him, hasty
and brief as the delineation has necessarily been. I have tried
to draw him as the determined leader, full of fire and force; the
stubborn fighter; the impetuous cavalier in the charge; the, at
times, hasty and arrogant, but warm-hearted friend; the devoted
Christian, husband, and father; the gayest of companions; full

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of fun, frolic, laughter, courage, hope, buoyancy, and a certain
youthful joyousness which made his presence like the sunshine.
Upon this last trait I have dwelt much—the youth, and joy,
and hope, which shone in his brilliant eyes and rang in his
sonorous laughter. He passed before you like an incarnate
spring, all mirth and sunshine; but behind was the lightning.
In those eyes as fresh and blue as the May morning, lurked the
storm and the thunderbolt. Beneath the flowers was the hard
steel battle-axe. With that weapon he struck like Cœur de Lion,
and few adversaries stood before it. The joy, romance, and
splendour of the early years of chivalry flamed in his regard, and
his brave blood drove him on to combat. In the lists, at Camelot,
he would have charged “before the eyes of ladies and of
kings,” like Arthur; on the arena of the war in Virginia he followed
his instincts. Bright eyes were ever upon the daring
cavalier there, and his floating plume was like Henry of Navarre's
to many stout horsemen who looked to him as their chosen
leader; but, better still, the eyes of Lee and Jackson were fixed
on him with fullest confidence. Jackson said, when his wound
disabled him at Chancellorsville, and Stuart succeeded him:
“Go back to General Stuart and tell him to act upon his own
judgment, and do what he thinks best—I have implicit confidence
in him.” In Spotsylvania, as we have seen, General Lee
“could scarcely think of him without weeping.” The implicit
confidence of Jackson, and the tears of Lee, are enough to fill
the measure of one man's life and fame.

Such was Stuart—such the figure which moved before the
eyes of the Southern people for those three years of glorious
encounters, and then fell like some “monarch of the woods,”
which makes the whole forest resound as it crashes down.
Other noble forms there were; but that “heart of oak” of the
stern, hard fibre, the stubborn grain, even where it lies is mightiest.
Even dead and crumbled into dust, the form of Stuart
still fills the eye, and the tallest dwindle by his side—he seems
so great.

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At five in the evening, on the 27th of June, 1862, General
Stonewall Jackson made his appearance on the field of Cold
Harbour. Fresh from the hot conflicts of the Valley—an
athlete covered with the dust and smoke of the arena—he came
now with his veteran battalions to enter upon the still more
desperate conflicts of the lowland.

At that time many persons asked, “Who is Jackson?” All
we then knew of the famous leader was this—that he was born a
poor boy beyond the Alleghanies; managed to get to West
Point; embarked in the Mexican war as lieutenant of artillery,
where he fought his guns with such obstinacy that his name
soon became renowned; and then, retiring from active service,
became a Professor at the Lexington Military School. Here
the world knew him only as an eccentric but deeply pious man,
and a somewhat commonplace lecturer. Stiff and rigid in his
pew at church, striding awkwardly from his study to his lectureroom,
ever serious, thoughtful, absent minded in appearance—
such was the figure of the future Lieutenant-General, the estimate
of whose faculties by the gay young students may be
imagined from their nickname for him, “Fool Tom Jackson.”

In April, 1861, Fool Tom Jackson became Colonel of Virginia
volunteers, and went to Harper's Ferry, soon afterwards fighting
General Patterson at Falling Water, thence descending to
Manassas. Here the small force—2,611 muskets—of Brigadier-General
Jackson saved the day. Without them the Federal

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column would have flanked and routed Beauregard. Bee,
forced back, shattered and overwhelmed, galloped up to Jackson
and groaned out, “General, they are beating us back!” Jackson's
set face did not move. “Sir,” he said, “we will give them
the bayonet.” Without those 2,611 muskets that morning,
good-by to Beauregard! In the next year came the Valley
campaign; the desperate and most remarkable fight at Kernstown;
the defeat and retreat of Banks from Strasburg and Winchester;
the retreat, in turn, of his great opponent, timed with
such mathematical accuracy, that at Strasburg he strikes with
his right hand and his left the columns of Fremont and Shields,
closing in from east and west to destroy him—strikes them and
passes through, continuing his retreat up the Valley. Then
comes the last scene—finis coronat. At Port Republic his
adversaries strike at him in two columns. He throws himself
against Fremont at Cross Keys and checks his advance; then
attacks Shields beyond the river, and after one of the hottest
battles of the war, fought nearly man to man, defeats himTroops
never fought better than the Federals there, but they
were defeated; and Jackson, by forced marches, hastened to fall
upon McClellan's right wing on the Chickahominy.

These events had, in June, 1862, attracted all eyes to Jackson.
People began to associate his name with the idea of unvarying
success, and to regard him as the incarnate genius of victory.
War seemed in his person to have become a splendid pageant of
unceasing triumph; and from the smoke of so many battle-fields
rose before the imaginative public eye, the figure of a
splendid soldier on his prancing steed, with his fluttering banner,
preceded by bugles, and advancing in all the pride, pomp, and
circumstance of glorious war. The actual man was somewhat
different; and in this sketch I shall try to draw his outline
as he really looked. In doing so, an apparent egotism will be
necessary; but this may be pardoned as inseparable from the
subject. What men see is more interesting than what they
think, often; what the writer saw of this great man will here be
recorded.

It was late in the afternoon of this memorable day, and A. P.

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Hill had just been repulsed with heavy slaughter from General
McClellan's admirable works near New Cold Harbour, when
the writer of this was sent by General Stuart to ascertain if
Jackson's crops had gone in, and what were his dispositions for
battle. A group near a log cabin, twenty paces from Old Cold
Harbour House, was pointed out to me; and going there, I asked
for the General. Some one pointed to a figure seated on a log—
dingy, bending over, and writing on his kness. A faded,
yellow cap of the cadet pattern was drawn over his eyes; his
fingers, holding a pencil, trembled. His voice, in addressing
me, was brief, curt, but not uncourteous; and then, his dispatch
having been sent, he mounted and rode slowly alone across
the field. A more curious figure I never saw. He sat his rawboned
sorrel—not the “old sorrel,” however—like an automaton.
Kness drawn up, body leaning forward; the whole figure
stiff, angular, unbending. His coat was the dingiest of the
dingy; originally gray, it seemed to have brought away some
of the dust and dirt of every region in which he had bivouacked.
His faded cap was pulled down so low upon the forehead that
he was compelled to raise his chin into the air to look from
beneath the rim. Under that rim flashed two keen and piercing
eyes—dark, with a strange brilliancy, and full of “fight.” The
nose was prominent; the moustache heavy upon the firm lip,
close set beneath; the rough, brown beard did not conceal the
heavy fighting jaw. All but the eye was in apparent respose;
there was no longer any tretnor of anxiety. The soldier seemed
to have made all his arrangements, “done his best,” and he
evidently awaited the result with entire coolness. There was
even something absent and abstracted in his manner, as he rode
slowly to and fro, sucking a lemon, and looking keenly at you
when you spoke, answering briefly when necessary.

Twice more I saw him that day—first in the evening, in the
midst of a furious shelling, riding slowly with General Stuart
among his guns; his face lit up by the burning brushwood—a
face perfectly calm and unmoved. And again at midnight,
when, as I slept in a fence corner, I felt a hand upon my shoulder,
and a voice said, “Where is the General?” It was

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Jackson, riding about by himself; and he tied his horse, lay
down beside General Stuart, and began with, “Well, yesterday's
was the most terrific fire of musketry I ever heard!” Words of
unwonted animation coming from Jackson—that most matter-of-fact
of speakers, and expressing much.

From this time, Jackson became the idol of his troops and the
country. Wherever he moved among the camps he was met
by cheers; and so unvarying was this reception of him, that a
distant yell would often draw from his men the exclamation,
“That's Jackson or a rabbit!” the sight of the soldier or the
appearance of a hare being alone adequate to arouse this tremendous
excitement. From the day of Cold Harbour, success continued
to crown him—at Cedar Mountain, the second Manassas,
Harper's Ferry, Sharpsburg, where he met the full weight of
McClellan's right wing under Hooker, and repulsed it, and
Chancellorsville. When he died, struck down by the hands of
his own men, he was the most famous and the most beloved of
Southern commanders.

His popularity was great in degree, but more singular in
character. No general was ever so beloved by the good and
pious of the land. Old ladies received him wherever he went
with a species of enthusiasm, and I think he preferred their
society and that of clergymen to any other. In such society his
kindly nature seemed to expand, and his countenance was
charming. He would talk for hours upon religious subjects,
never weary, it seemed, of such discourse, and at such moments
his smile had the sweetness and simplicity of childhood. The
hard intellect was resting, and the heart of the soldier spoke in
this congenial converse upon themes more dear to him than all
others. I have seen him look serene and perfectly happy, conversing
with a venerable lady upon their relative religious
experiences. Children were also great favourites with him, and
he seldom failed to make them love him. When at his headquarters
below Fredericksburg, in 1863, he received a splendid

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new cap, gorgeous with a broad band of dazzling gold braid,
which was greatly admired by a child one day in his quarters.
Thereupon Jackson drew her between his knees, ripped off the
braid, and binding it around her curls, sent her away delighted.
With maidens of more advanced age, however, the somewhat
shy General was less at his ease. At “Hayfield,” near the
same headquarters, and about the same time, the hospitable
family were one day visited by Generals Lee, Jackson, and
Stuart, when a little damsel of fourteen confided to her friend
General Lee her strong desire to kiss General Jackson. General
Lee, always fond of pleasantry, at once informed Jackson of the
young lady's desire, and the great soldier's face was covered
with blushes and confusion. An amusing picture, too, is drawn
of the General when he fell into the hands of the ladies of
Martinsburg, and they cut off almost every button of his coat
as souvenirs. The beleaguered hero would have preferred
storming a line of intrenchments.

Jackson had little humour. He was not sour or gloomy, nor
did he look grimly upon “fun” as something which a good
Presbyterian should avoid. He was perfectly cheerful, liberal
and rational in this as in everything; but he had no ear for
humour, as some persons have none for music. A joke was a
mysterious affair to him. Only when so very “broad” and
staring, that he who ran might read it, did humour of any sort
strike Jackson. Even his thick coating of matter-of-fact was
occasionally pierced, however. At Port Republic a soldier said
to his companion: “I wish these Yankees were in hell,” whereupon
the other replied: “I don't; for if they were, old Jack
would be within half a mile of them, with the Stonewall Brigade
in front!” When this was told to Jackson, he is said to
have burst out into hearty laughter, most unusual of sounds upon
the lips of the serious soldier. But such enjoyment of fun was
rare with him. I was never more struck with this than one day
at Fredericksburg, at General Stuart's headquarters. There was
an indifferent brochure published in those days, styled “Abram,
a Poem,” in the comic preface to which, Jackson was presented
in a most ludicrous light, seated on a stump at Oxhill and

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gnawing at a roasting ear, while a whole North Carolina brigade
behind him in line of battle was doing likewise. General Stuart
read it with bursts of laughter to his friend, and Jackson also
laughed with perfect good-humour; but no sooner had the book
been closed than he seemed to forget its existence, and said with
an irresistibly matter-of-fact expression which made this writer
retire to indulge his own laughter: “By the by, in going to Culpeper,
where did you cross the Rapidan?
” His manner was
unmistakable. It said: “My dear Stuart, all that is no doubt
very amusing to you, and I laugh because you do; but it don't
interest me.” On one occasion only, to the knowledge of the
present writer, did Jackson betray something like dry humour.
It was at Harper's Ferry, in September, 1862, just after the surrender
of that place, and when General Lee was falling back
upon Sharpsburg. Jackson was standing on the bridge over
the Potomac when a courier, out of breath, and seriously “demoralized,”
galloped up to him, and announced that McClellan
was within an hour's march of the place with an enormous army.
Jackson was conversing with a Federal officer at the moment,
and did not seem to hear the courier, who repeated his message
with every mark of agitation. Thereupon Jackson turned round
and said: “Has he any cattle with him?” The reply was that
there were thousands. “Well,” said Jackson, with his dry smile,
“you can go. My men can whip any army that comes well
provisioned.” Of wit, properly speaking, he had little. But
at times his brief, wise, matter-of-fact sentences became epigrammatic.
Dr. Hunter McGuire, his medical director, once gave
him some whiskey when he was wet and fatigued. Jackson made
a wry face in swallowing it, and Dr. McGuire asked if it was
not good whiskey. “Oh, yes,” replied Jackson, “I like liquor,
the taste and effect—that's why I don't drink it.

I have endeavoured to draw an outline of Jackson on horseback—
the stiff, gaunt figure, dingy costume, piercing eyes; the
large, firm, iron mouth, and the strong fighting-jaw. A few

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more words upon these personal peculiarities. The soldier's
face was one of decided character, but not eminently striking.
One circumstance always puzzled me—Jackson's lofty forehead
seemed to indicate unmistakably a strong predominance of the
imagination and fancy, and a very slight tendency or aptitude
for mathematics. It was the forehead of a poet!—the statement
is almost a jest. Jackson the stern, intensely matter-of-fact
mathematician, a man of fancy! Never did forehead so contradict
phrenology before. A man more guiltless of “poetry” in
thought or deed, I suppose never lived. His poetry was the
cannon's flash, the rattle of musketry, and the lurid cloud of battle.
Then, it is true, his language, ordinarily so curt and cold,
grew eloquent, almost tragic and heroic at times, from the deep
feeling of the man. At Malvern Hill, General — received
an order from Jackson to advance and attack the Federal forces
in their fortified position, for which purpose he must move
across an open field swept by their artillery. General — was
always “impracticable,” though thoroughly brave, and galloping
up to Jackson said, almost rudely, “Did you send me an
order to advance over that field?” “I did, sir,” was the cold
reply of Jackson, in whose eyes began to glow the light of a
coming storm. “Impossible, sir!” exclaimed General — in
a tone almost of insubordination, “my men will be annihilated!—
annihilated, I tell you, sir!” Jackson raised his finger, and
in his cold voice there was an accent of menace which cooled
his opponent like a hand of ice.

“General —,” he said, “I always endeavour to take care of
my wounded and to bury my dead. Obey that order, sir!”

The officer who was present at this scene and related it to me,
declares that he never saw a deeper suppression of concentrated
anger than that which shone in Jackson's eye, or heard a human
voice more menacing.

There were other times when Jackson, stung and aroused,
was driven from his propriety, or, at least, out of his coolness.
The winter of 1861-2 was such an occasion. He had made his
expedition to Morgan county, and, in spite of great suffering
among the troops, had forced the Federal garrisons at Bath and

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Romney to retire, and accomplished all hisends. General Loring
was then left at Romney, and Jackson returned to Winchester.
All that is well known. What follows is not known to many.
General Loring conceived an intense enmity for Jackson, and
made such representations at Richmond, that an order was sent
to Loring direct, not through Jackson, commanding in the Valley,
recalling him. Jackson at once sent in his resignation.
The scene which took place between him and his friend Colonel
Boteler, thereupon, was a stormy one. The Colonel in vain
tried to persuade him that he ought to recall his resignation.
“No, sir,” exclaimed Jackson, striding fiercely up and down,
“I will not hold a command upon terms of that sort. I will
not have those people at Richmond interfering in my plans, and
sending orders to an officer under me, without even informing
me. No soldier can endure it. I care not for myself. If I
know myself I do not act from anger—but if I yield now they
will treat better men in the same way! I am nobody—but the
protest must be made here, or Lee and Johnston will be meddled
with as I am.” It was only after the resignation had been withdrawn
by the Governor of Virginia without his authority, and
explanations, apologies, protestations, came from the head of the
War Office, that the design was given up. Such is a little morceau
of private history, showing how Jackson came near not
commanding in the Valley in 1862.

With the exception of these rare occasions when his great
passions were aroused, Jackson was an apparently commonplace
person, and his bearing neither striking, graceful, nor impressive.
He rode ungracefully, walked with an awkward stride, and
wanted ease of manner. He never lost a certain shyness in
company; and I remember his air of boyish constraint, one
day, when, in leaving an apartment full of friends, he hesitated
whether to shake hands with every one or not. Catching the
eye of the present writer, who designed remaining, he hastily
extended his hand, shook hands, and quickly retired, apparently
relieved. His bearing thus wanted ease; but, personally, he
made a most agreeable impression by his delightfully natural
courtesy. His smile was as sweet as a child's, and evidently

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sprang from his goodness of heart. A lady said it was “angelic.”
His voice in ordinary conversation was subdued, and
pleasant from its friendly and courteous tone, though injured by
the acquired habit—a West Pointism—of cutting off, so to speak,
each word, and leaving each to take care of itself. This was
always observable in his manner of talking; but briefest of the
brief, curtest of the curt, was General Stonewall Jackson on the
field of battle and “at work.” His words were then let fall as
though under protest; all superfluities were discarded; and the
monosyllables jerked from his lips seemed clipped off, one by
one, and launched to go upon separate ways. The eccentricities
of the individual were undoubtedly a strong element of his popularity;
the dress, habits, bearing of the man, all made his soldiers
adore him. General Lee's air of collected dignity, mingled
with a certain grave and serious pride, aroused rather admiration
than affection—though during the last years of the war, the
troops came to love as much as they admired him: to arrive at
which point they had only to know the great warm heart which
beat under that calm exterior, making its possessor “one altogether
lovely.” Jackson's appearance and manners, on the contrary,
were such as conciliate a familiar, humorous liking. His
dingy old coat, than which scarce a private's in his command
was more faded; his dilapidated and discolored cap; the absence
of decorations and all show in his dress; his odd ways;
his kindly, simple manner; his habit of sitting down and eating
with his men; his indifference whether his bed were in a comfortable
headquarter tent, on a camp couch, or in a fence corner
with no shelter from the rain but his cloak; his abstemiousness,
fairness, honesty, simplicity; his never-failing regard for the
comfort and the feelings of the private soldier; his oddities,
eccentricities, and originalities—all were an unfailing provocative
to liking, and endeared him to his men. Troops are charmed
when there is anything in the personal character of a great
leader to “make fun of”—admiration of his genius then becomes
enthusiasm for his person. Jackson had aroused this
enthusiasm in his men—and it was a weapon with which he
struck hard.

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One of the most curious peculiarities of Jackson was the
strange fashion he had of raising his right hand aloft and then
letting it fall suddenly to his side. It is impossible, perhaps, to
determine the meaning of this singular gesture. It is said that
he had some physical ailment which he thus relieved; others
believed that at such moments he was praying. Either may be
the fact. Certain it is that he often held his hand, sometimes
both hands, thus aloft in battle, and that his lips were then seen
to move, evidently in prayer. Not once, but many times, has
the singular spectacle been presented of a Lieutenant-General
commanding, sitting on his horse silently as his column moved
before him—his hands raised to heaven, his eyes closed, his lips
moving in prayer. At Chancellorsville, as he recognised the
corpses of any of his old veterans, he would check his horse,
raise his hands to heaven, and utter a prayer over the dead body.

There were those who said that all this indicated a partial
species of insanity—that Jackson's mind was not sound. Other
stories are told of him which aim to show that his eccentricities
amounted to craziness. Upon this point the philosophers and
physiologists must decide. The present writer can only say that
Jackson appeared to him to be an eminently rational, judicious,
and sensible person in conversation; and the world must determine
whether there was any “craze,” any flaw or crack, or error,
in the terribly logical processes of his brain as a fighter of
armies. The old incredulity of Frederick will obtrude itself
upon the mind. If Jackson was crazy, it is a pity he did not
bite somebody, and inoculate them with a small amount of his
insanity as a soldier. Unquestionably the most striking trait of
Jackson as a leader was his unerring judgment and accuracy of
calculation. The present writer believes himself to be familiar
with every detail of his career, and does not recall one blunder.
Kernstown was fought upon information furnished by General
Ashby, a most accomplished and reliable partisan, which turned
out to be inaccurate; but even in defeat Jackson there accomplished
the very important object of retaining a large Federal
force in the Valley, which McClellan needed on the Chickahominy.
For instances of the boldness, fertility, and originality

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of his conceptions, take the campaigns against General Pope,
the surprise of Harper's Ferry, the great flank attack at Chancellorsville,
and the marvellous success of every step taken in
the campaign of the Valley. This is not the occasion for an
analysis of these campaigns; but it may be safely declared that
they are magnificent illustrations of the mathematics of war;
that the brain which conceived and executed designs so bold and
splendid, must have possessed a sanity for all practical purposes
difficult to dispute.

Jackson's religious opinions are unknown to the present writer.
He has been called a “fatalist.” All sensible men are fatalists
in one sense, in possessing a strong conviction that “what will
be, will be.” But men of deep piety like Jackson, are not Oriental
in their views. Fate was a mere word with Jackson, with
no meaning; his “star” was Providence. Love for and trust
in that Providence dwelt and beat in every vein and pulse of
his nature. His whole soul was absorbed in his religion—as
much as a merchant's is in his business, or a statesman's in public
affairs. He believed that life “meant intensely, and meant
good.” To find its meaning was “his meat and drink.” His
religion was his life, and the real world a mere phantasmagoria.
He seemed to have died rejoicing, preferring death to life.
Strange madness! This religious dreamer was the stern, practical,
mathematical calculator of chances; the obstinate, unyielding
fighter; the most prosaic of realists in all the commonplaces
of the dreadfully commonplace trade of war.

The world knocks down many people with that cry of “eccentric,”
by which is really meant “insane.” Any divergence from
the conventional is an evidence of mental unsoundness. Jackson
was seen, once in Lexington, walking up and down in a
heavy rain before the superintendent's quarters, waiting for the
clock to strike ten before he delivered his report. He wore
woollen clothes throughout the summer. He would never mail
a letter which to reach its destination must travel on Sunday.

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All these things made him laughed at; and yet the good sense
seems all on his side, the folly on that of the laughers. The Institute
was a military school; military obedience was the great
important lesson to the student—rigid, unquestioning obedience.
Jackson set them the example. He was ordered to hand in his
report at ten, and did not feel himself at liberty to present it before
ten, in consequence of the rain. He was ordered to don a
woollen uniform in the winter, and having received no order
preseribing or permitting another, continued to wear it. He
considered it wrong to travel or carry mails on Sunday, and
would not take part in the commission of wrong. This appears
logical, however eccentric.

In truth, the great soldier was an altogether earnest man, with
little genius for the trivial pursuits of life, or its more trivial
processes of thought and opinion. His temper was matter-of-fact,
his logic straightforward; “nonsense” could not live in
his presence. The lighter graces were denied him, but not the
abiding charm. He had no eye for the “flower of the peas,” no
palate for the bubble on the champagne of life; but he was true,
kind, brave, and simple. Life with him was a hard, earnest
struggle; duty seems to have been his watchword. It is hard
to find in his character any actual blot—he was so true and
honest.

Jackson has probably excited more admiration in Europe
than any other personage in the late revolution. His opponents
even are said to have acknowledged the purity of his motives—
to have recognised the greatness of his character and the splendor
of his achievements. This sentiment springs naturally from
a review of his life. It is no part of my design to present a
critical analysis of his military movements. This must sooner
or later be done; but at present the atmosphere is not clear of
the battle-smoke, and figures are seen indistinctly. The time
will come when the campaigns of Jackson will become the study
of military men in the Old World and the New—the masterly advances
and retreats of the Valley; the descent against McClellan;
the expedition to Pope's rear, which terminated in the
second battle of Manassas; and the great flank movement at

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Chancellorsville, which has made the tangled brakes of the
Spotsylvania wilderness famous for ever.

Under the grave exterior, the reserved demeanour, the old
faded costume of the famous soldier, the penetrating student of
human nature will discern “one of the immortals.” In the man
who holds aloft his hand in prayer while his veteran battalions
move by steadily to the charge, it will not be difficult to fancy
a reproduction of the stubborn Cromwell, sternest of Ironsides,
going forth to conquer in the name of the Lord. In the man
who led his broken lines back to the conflict, and charged in
front of them on many fields, there was all the dash and impetus
of Rupert. The inscrutable decree of Providence struck
down this great soldier in the prime of life and the bloom of his
faculties. His career extended over but two years, and he lives
only in memory. But history cannot avoid her landmarks; the
great proportions of Stonewall Jackson will sooner or later be
delineated.

The writer of these lines can only say how great this man
appeared to him, and wait with patience for the picture which
shall “denote him truly.”

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WADE HAMPTON'S CAVALRY FIGHT AT GETTYSBURG.—Page 57. [figure description] Illustration page, which depicts an intense Civil War battle between the two armies. The picture is a mess of horses, men, and swords -- all fighting, clashing, and falling.[end figure description]

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THERE was a gentleman of South Carolina, of high position and
ample estate, who in 1861 came to take part in the war in
Virginia, at the head of a “Legion” of six hundred infantry.
This body of men, it was said, he had equipped from his own
purse; as he had sent to England and purchased the artillery
with which he was going to fight.

The “Legion” was composed of brave stuff, and officered by
hard-fighting gentlemen—the flower indeed of the great South
Carolina race; a good stock. It first took the field in earnest at
the first battle of Manassas—as an independent organization,
belonging neither to Beauregard's “Army of the Potomac” nor
to Johnston's “Army of the Shenandoah.” But there it was, as
though dropped from the clouds, on the morning of that fiery
twenty-first of July, 1861, amid the corn-fields of Manassas.
It made its mark without loss of time—stretching out to Virginia
that firm, brave hand of South Carolina. At ten o'clock
in the morning, on this eventful day, the battle seemed lost to
the Southerners. Evans was cut to pieces; Bee shattered and
driven back in utter defeat to the Henry-House hill; between
the victorious enemy and Beauregard's unprotected flank were
interposed only the six hundred men of the “Legion” already
up, and the two thousand six hundred and eleven muskets of
Jackson not yet in position. The Legion occupied the Warrenton
road near the Stone House, where it met and sustained
with stubborn front the torrent dashed against it. General

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Keyes, with his division, attacked the six hundred from the
direction of Red-House ford, and his advance line was forced
back by them, and compelled to take refuge beneath the bluffs
near Stone bridge. The column of General Hunter, mean while,
closed in on the left of the little band, enveloped their flank,
and poured a destructive artillery fire along the line. To hold
their ground further was impossible, and they slowly fell back;
but those precious moments had been secured. Jackson was in
position; the Legion retreated, and formed upon his right; the
enemy's advance was checked; and when the Southern line
advanced in its turn, with wild cheers, piercing the Federal centre,
the South Carolinians fought shoulder to shoulder beside
the Stonewall Brigade, and saw the Federal forces break in disorder.
When the sun set on this bloody and victorious field,
the “Legion” had made a record among the most honourable in
history. They had done more than their part in the hard struggle,
and now saw the enemy in full retreat; but their leader did not
witness that spectacle. Wade Hampton had been shot down in
the final charge near the Henry House, and borne from the field,
cheering on his men to the last, with that stubborn hardihood
which he derived from his ancestral blood.

Such was the first appearance upon the great arena of a man
who was destined to act a prominent part in the tragic drama of
the war, and win for himself a distinguished name. At Manassas,
there in the beginning of the struggle, as always afterwards,
he was the cool and fearless soldier. It was easily seen by those
who watched Hampton “at work” that he fought from a sense
of duty, and not from passion, or to win renown. The war was
a gala-day full of attraction and excitement to some; with him
it was hard work—not sought, but accepted. I am certain that
he was not actuated by a thirst for military rank or renown.
From those early days when all was gay and brilliant, to the
latter years when the conflict had become so desperate and
bloody, oppressing every heart, Hampton remained the same
cool, unexcited soldier. He was foremost in every fight, and
everywhere did more than his duty; but evidently martial ambition
did not move him. Driven to take up arms by his

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principles, he fought for those principles, not for fame. It followed
him—he did not follow it; and to contemplate the character and
career of such a man is wholesome.

His long and ardous career cannot here be narrated. A bare
reference to some prominent points is all that can be given.
Colonel Hampton, of the “Hampton Legion,” soon became
Brigadier-General Hampton, of the cavalry. The horsemen of
the Gulf States serving in Virginia were placed under him, and
the brigade became a portion of Stuart's command. It soon
made its mark. Here are some of the landmarks in the stirring
record.

The hard and stubborn stand made at the Catoctin Mountain,
when General Lee first invaded Maryland, and where Hampton
charged and captured the Federal artillery posted in the suburbs
of Frederick City; the rear-guard work as the Southern column
hastened on, pursued by McClellan, to Sharpsburg: the stout
fighting on the Confederate left there; the raid around McClellan's
army in October; the obstinate fighting in front of the
gaps of the Blue Ridge as Lee fell back in November to the line
of the Rappahannock; the expedition in dead of winter to the
Occoquan; the critical and desperate combat on the ninth of
June, 1863, at Fleetwood Hill, near Brandy, where Hampton
held the right, and Young, of Georgia, the brave of braves, went
at the flanking column of the enemy with the sabre, never firing
a shot, and swept them from the field; the speedy advance,
thereafter, from the Rapidan; the close and bitter struggle when
the enemy, with an overpowering force of infantry, cavalry, and
artillery, about the twentieth of June, attacked the Southern
cavalry near Middleburg, and forced them back step by step
beyond Upperville, where in the last wild charge, when the
Confederates were nearly broken, Hampton went in with the
sabre at the head of his men and saved the command from
destruction by his “do or die” fighting; the advance immediately
into Pennsylvania, when the long, hard march, like the
verses of Ariosto, was strewed all over with battles; the stubborn
attack at Hanovertown, where Hampton stood like a rock upon
the hills above the place, and the never-ceasing or receding roar

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of his artillery told us that on the right flank all was well; the
march thereafter to Carlisle, and back to Gettysburg; the grand
charge there, sabre to sabre, where Hampton was shot through
the body, and nearly cut out of the saddle by a sabre blow upon
the head, which almost proved fatal; the hard conflicts of the
Wilderness, when General Grant came over in May, 1864; the
fighting on the north bank of the Po, and on the left of the
army at Spotsylvania Court-House; the various campaigns
against Sheridan, Kautz, Wilson, and the later cavalry leaders
on the Federal side, when, Stuart having fallen, Hampton commanded
the whole Virginia cavalry; the hot fights at Trevillian's,
at Reanis, at Bellfield, in a hundred places, when, in
those expiring hours of the great conflict, a species of fury
seemed to possess both combatants, and Dinwiddie was the arena
of a struggle, bitter, bloody, desperate beyond all expression;
then the fighting in the Carolinas on the old grounds of the
Edisto, the high hills of the Santee and Congaree, which in 1864
and 1865 sent bulletins of battle as before; then the last act of
the tragedy, when Sherman came and Hampton's sabre gleamed
in the glare of his own house at Columbia, and then was
sheathed—such were some of the scenes amid which the tall
form of this soldier moved, and his sword flashed. That stalwart
form had everywhere towered in the van. On the Rappahannock,
the Rapidan, the Susquehanna, the Shenandoah, the
Po, the North Anna, the James, the Rowanty, and Hatcher's
Run—in Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania—Hampton had
fought with the stubborn courage inherited from his Revolution-ary
sires. Fighting lastly upon the soil of his native State, he
felt no doubt as Marion and Sumter did, when Rawdon and
Tarleton came and were met sabre to sabre. In the hot conflicts
of 1865, Hampton met the new enemy as those preux chevaliers
with their great Virginia comrade, “Light-House Harry” Lee,
had met the old in 1781.

But the record of those stubborn fights must be left to another
time and to abler hands. I pass to a few traits of the individual.

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Of this eminent soldier, I will say that, seeing him often in
many of those perilous straits which reveal hard fibre or its
absence, I always regarded him as a noble type of courage and
manhood—a gentleman and soldier “to the finger nails.” But
that is not enough; generalization and eulogy are unprofitable—
truth and minute characterization are better. One personal
anecdote of Cæsar would be far more valuable than a hundred
commonplaces—and that is true of others. It is not a “general
idea” I am to give; I would paint the portrait, if I can, of the
actual man. The individuality of the great South Carolinian
was very marked. You saw at a glance the race from which he
sprang, and the traits of heart and brain which he brought to
the hard contest. He was “whole in himself and due to none.”
Neither in physical nor mental conformation did he resemble
Stuart, the ideal cavalier—Forrest, the rough-rider—or the rest.
To compare him for an instant to the famous Stuart—the latter
laughed, sang, and revelled in youth and enjoyment. Hampton
smiled oftener than he laughed, never sang at all that I ever
heard, and had the composed demeanour of a man of middle age.
Stuart loved brilliant colours, gay scenes, and the sparkle of
bright eyes. Hampton gave little thought to these things; and
his plain gray coat, worn, dingy, and faded, beside the great
cavalier's gay “fighting jacket,” shining with gold braid, defined
the whole difference. I do not say that the dingy coat covered
a stouter heart than the brilliant jacket—there never lived a
more heroic soul than Stuart—but that in this was shown the
individuality of each. The one—Stuart—was young, gay, a
West Pointer, and splendid in his merriment, élan, and abandon.
The other, Hampton, a civilian approaching middle age, a
planter, not a soldier by profession—a man who embarked in
the arduous struggle with the coolness of the statesman, rather
than the ardor of the soldier. It was the planter, sword in hand,
not the United States officer, that one saw in Hampton—the
country gentleman who took up arms because his native soil was

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invaded, as the race of which he came had done in the past.
That the plain planter, without military education, became the
eminent soldier, is an evidence that “the strain will show.”

Here is an outline of the South Carolinian as he appeared in
July, 1862, when the cavalry were resting after the battles of the
Chickahominy, and he often came to the old shady yard of
Hanover Court-House, to talk with General Stuart under the
trees there. What the eye saw in those days was a personage of
tall stature and “distinguished” appearance. The face was
browned by sun and wind, and half covered by dark side-whiskers
joining a long moustache of the same hue; the chin bold,
prominent, and bare. The eyes were brown, inclining to black,
and very mild and friendly; the voice low, sonorous, and with a
certain accent of dignity and composure. The frame of the soldier—
straight, vigorous, and stalwart, but not too broad for grace—
was encased in a plain gray sack coat of civilian cut, with the
collar turned down; cavalry boots, large and serviceable, with
brass spurs; a brown felt hat, without star or feather; the rest of
the dress plain gray. Imagine this stalwart figure with a heavy
sabre buckled around the waist, and mounted upon a large and
powerful animal of excellent blood and action, but wholly “unshowy,”
and a correct idea will be obtained of General Wade
Hampton. Passing from the clothes to the man—what impressed
all who saw him was the attractive union of dignity and simplicity
in his bearing—a certain grave and simple courtesy which
indicated the highest breeding. He was evidently an honest
gentleman who disdained all pretence or artifice. It was plain
that he thought nothing of personal decorations or military show,
and never dreamed of “producing an impression” upon any one.
This was revealed by that bearing full of a proud modesty; neither
stiff nor insinuating—simple.

After being in his presence for ten minutes, you saw that he
was a man for hard work, and not for display. That plain and
unassuming manner, without pretension, affectation, or “official”
coolness, was an index to the character of the individual. It is
easy to tell a gentleman; something betrays that character, as
something betrays the pretender. Refinement, good-breeding,

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and fealty through all, to honour, were here embodied. The
General was as courteous to the humblest private soldier as to
the Commander-in-Chief, and you could discover in him no trace
whatever of that air of “condescension” and “patronage”
which small persons, aiming to be great, sometimes adopt. It
was the unforced courtesy of the gentleman, not the hollow
politeness of the pretender to that title, which all saw in
Hampton. He did not act at all, but lived his character.
In his voice, in his bearing, in all that he said and did, the
South Carolinian betrayed the man who is too proud not to be
simple, natural, and unassuming.

Upon this trait of manner, merely, I may seem to dwell too
long. But it is not a trifle. I am trying to delineate a man of
whom we Southerners are proud—and this rare grace was his.
It reflected clearly the character of the individual—the noble
pride, the true courtesy, and the high-bred honour of one who,
amid all the jarring strife of an excited epoch, would not suffer
his serene equanimity of gentleman to be disturbed; who aimed
to do his duty to his country, not rise above his associates; who
was no politer to the high than to the low, to the powerful than
to the weak; and who respected more the truth and courage
beneath the tattered jacket than the starts and wreath on the
braided coat. The result of this kindly feeling towards “men of
low estate” was marked. An officer long associated with him
said to me one day: “I do not believe there ever was a General
more beloved by his whole command; and he more than returns
it. General Hampton has a real tenderness, I do believe, for every
solider who has ever served under him.” He was always doing
the poorer members of his command some kindness. His hand
was open like his heart. Many a brave fellow's family was kept
from want by him; and a hundred instances of this liberality are
doubtless recorded in the grateful memories of the women and
children whom he fought for, and fed too, in those dark days.
This munificence was nowhere else recorded. The left hand
knew not what the right hand did.

A few words more upon his personal bearing. His composure
upon trying occasions, as in every-day life, indicated a self-poised

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and independent character. He rarely yielded to hearty mirth,
but his smile was very friendly and attractive. You could see
that he was a person of earnest feelings, and had a good heart.
In camp he was a pleasant companion, and those who saw him
daily became most attached to him. His staff were devoted to
him. I remember the regret experienced by these brave gentlemen
when Hampton's assignment to the command of all the cavalry
separated them from him. The feeling which they then exhibited
left no doubt of the entente cordiale between the members of the
military family. General Hampton liked to laugh and talk with
them around the camp fire; to do them every kindness he could—
but that was his weakness towards everybody—and to play
chess, draughts, or other games, in the intervals of fighting or
work. One of his passions was hunting. This amusement he
pursued upon every occasion—over the fields of Spotsylvania,
amid the woods of Dinwiddle, and on the rivers of South Carolina.
His success was great. Ducks, partridges, squirrels, turkey, and
deer, fell before his double-barrel in whatever country he pitched
his tents. He knew all the old huntsmen of the regions in which
he tarried, delighted to talk with such upon the noble science of
venery, and was considered by these dangerous critics a thorough
sportsman. They regarded him, it is said, as a comrade not
undistinguished; and sent him, in friendly recognition of his
merit, presents of venison and other game, which was plentiful
along the shores of the Rowanty, or in the backwoods of
Dinwiddie. Hampton was holding the right of General Lee's
line there, in supreme command of all the Virginia cavalry; but
it was not as a hunter of “bluebirds”—so we used to call our
Northern friends—that they respected him most. It was as a
deer hunter; and I have heard that the hard-fighting cavalier
relished very highly their good opinion of him in that character.
It is singular that a love for hunting should so often characterize
men of elegant scholarship and literary taste. The soldier and
huntsman was also a poet, and General Stuart spoke in high
praise of his writings. His prose style was forcible and excellent—
in letters, reports, and all that he wrote. The admirably
written address to the people of South Carolina, which was

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recently published, will display the justice of this statement.
That paper, like all that came from him, was compact, vigorous,
lucid, “written in English,” and everywhere betrayed the scholar
no less than the patriot. It will live when a thousand octavos
have disappeared.

Such was Wade Hampton the man—a gentleman in every
fibre of his being. It was impossible to imagine anything coarse
or profane in the action or utterance of the man. An oath never
soiled his lips. “Do bring up that artillery!” or some equivalent
exclamation, was his nearest approach to irritation even.
Such was the supreme control which this man of character, full
of fire, force, and resolution, had over his passions. For, under
that simplicity and kindly courtesy, was the largely-moulded
nature of one ready to go to the death when honour called. In
a single word, it was a powerful organization under complete
control which the present writer seemed to recognise in Wade
Hampton. Under that sweetness and dignity which made him
conspicuous among the first gentlemen of his epoch, was the
stubborn spirit of the born soldier.

Little space is left to speak of him in his military character.
I preferred to dwell upon Hampton the man, as he appeared to
me; for Hampton the General will find many historians. Some
traits of the soldier, however, must not be omitted; this character
is too eminent to be drawn only in profile. On the field
Hampton was noted for his coolness. This never left him. It
might almost be called repose, so perfect was it. He was never
an excitable man; and as doubt and danger pressed heavier, his
equanimity seemed to increase. You could see that this was
truly a stubborn spirit. I do not think that anybody who knew
him could even imagine Wade Hampton “flurried.” His nerve
was made of invincible stuff, and his entire absence of all
excitability on the field was spoken of by his enemies as a fault.
It was said that his coolness amounted to a defect in a cavalry
leader; that he wanted the dash, rush, and impetus which this

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branch of the service demands. If there was any general truth
in this criticism, there was none in particular instances. Hampton
was sufficiently headlong when I saw him—was one of the most
thoroughly successful commanders imaginable, and certainly
seemed to have a natural turn for going in front of his column
with a drawn sabre. What the French call élan is not, however,
the greatest merit in a soldier. Behind the strong arm was the
wary brain. Cool and collected resolution, a comprehensive
survey of the whole field, and the most excellent dispositions for
attack or defence—such were the merits of this soldier. I could
never divest myself of the idea that as a corps commander of
infantry he would have figured among the most eminent names
of history. With an unclouded brain; a coup d'œil as clear as a
ray of the sun; invincible before danger; never flurried, anxious,
or despondent; content to wait; too wary ever to be surprised;
looking to great trials of strength, and to general results—the
man possessing these traits of character was better fitted, I
always thought, for the command of troops of all arms—infantry,
cavalry, and artillery—than for one arm alone. But with that
arm which he commanded—cavalry—what splendid results did
he achieve. In how many perilous straits was his tall figure seen
in front of the Southern horsemen, bidding them “come on,”
not “go on.” He was not only the commander, but the sabreur
too. Thousands will remember how his gallant figure led the
charging column at Frederick City, at Upperville, at Gettysburg,
at Trevillian's, and in a hundred other fights. Nothing more
superb could be imagined than Hampton at such moments.
There was no flurry in the man—but determined resolution.
No doubt of the result apparently—no looking for an avenue of
retreat. “Sabre to sabre!” might have been taken as the motto
of his banner. In the “heady fight” he was everywhere seen,
amid the clouds of smoke, the crashing shell, and the whistling
balls, fighting like a private soldier, his long sword doing hard
work in the mélée, and carving its way as did the trenchant
weapons of the ancient knights. This spirit of the thorough
cavalier in Hampton is worth dwelling on. Under the braid of
the Major-General was the brave soul of the fearless soldier, the

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“fighting man.” It was not a merit in him or in others that
they gave up wealth, business, elegance, all the comforts, conveniences,
and serene enjoyments of life, to live hard and fight
hard; to endure heat, cold, hunger, thirst, exhaustion, and pain,
without a murmur; but it was a merit in this brave soldier and
gentleman that he did more than his duty, met breast to breast
in single combat the best swordsmen of the Federal army,
counted his life as no more than a private soldier's, and seemed
to ask nothing better than to pour out his heart's blood for the
cause in which he fought. This personal heroism—and Hampton
had it to a grand extent—attracts the admiration of troops. But
there is something better—the power of brain and force of
character which wins the confidence of the Commander-in-Chief.
When that Commander-in-Chief is called Robert E. Lee, it is
something to have secured his high regard and confidence.
Hampton had won the respect of Lee, and by that “noblest
Roman of them all” his great character and eminent services
were fully recognised. These men seemed to understand each
other, and to be inspired by the same sentiment—a love of their
native land which never failed, and a willingness to spend and
be spent to the last drop of their blood in the cause which they
had espoused. During General Stuart's life, Hampton was
second in command of the Virginia Cavalry; but when that
great cavalier fell, he took charge of the whole as ranking-officer.
His first blow was that resolute night-attack on Sheridan's force at
Mechanicsville, when the enemy were driven in the darkness
from their camps, and sprang to horse only in time to avoid the
sweeping sabres of the Southerners—giving up from that moment
all further attempt to enter Richmond. Then came the long,
hard, desperate fighting of the whole year 1864, and the spring of
1865. At Trevillian's, Sheridan was driven back and Charlottesville
saved; on the Weldon railroad the Federal cavalry, under
Kautz and Wilson, was nearly cut to pieces, and broke in disorder,
leaving on the roads their wagons, cannons, ambulances, their
dead men and horses; near Bellfield the Federal column sent to
destroy the railroad was encountered, stubbornly opposed, and
driven back before they could burn the bridge at Hicksford; at

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Burgess' Mill, near Petersburg, where General Grant made his
first great blow with two corps of infantry, at the Southside
railroad, Hampton met them in front and flank, fought them all
an October day nearly, lost his brave son Preston, dead from a
bullet on the field, but in conjunction with Mahone, that hardy
fighter, sent the enemy in haste back to their works; thus saving
for the time the great war artery of the Southern army. Thenceforward,
until he was sent to South Carolina, Hampton held the
right of Lee in the woods of Dinwiddie, guarding with his cavalry
cordon the line of the Rowanty, and defying all comers. Stout,
hardy, composed, smiling, ready to meet any attack—in those
last days of the strange year 1864, he seemed to my eyes the
beau ideal of a soldier. The man appeared to be as firm as a
rock, as immovably rooted as one of the gigantic live-oaks of his
native country. When I asked him one day if he expected to
be attacked soon, he laughed and said: “No; the enemy's cavalry
are afraid to show their noses beyond their infantry.” Nor did
the Federal cavalry ever achieve any results in that region until
the ten or fifteen thousand crack cavalry of General Sheridan
came to ride over the two thousand men, on starved and broken-down
horses, of General Fitz Lee, in April, 1865.

From Virginia, in the dark winter of 1864, Hampton was
sent to oppose with his cavalry the advance of General Sherman,
and the world knows how desperately he fought there on his
natale solum. More than ever before it was sabre to sabre, and
Hampton was still in front. When the enemy pressed on to
Columbia he fell back, fighting from street to street, and so continued
fighting until the thunderbolt fell in South Carolina, as it
had fallen in Virginia at Appomattox, and the struggle ended.
The sword that Hampton sheathed that day was one which no
soil of bad faith, cruelty, or dishonour had ever tainted. It was
the blade of a brave and irreproachable chevalier, of a man who
throughout the most desperate and embittered conflict of all history
had kept his ancestral name from every blot, and had
proved himself upon a hundred battle-fields the worthy son of
the “mighty men of old.”

Such, in rough outline, was this brave and kindly soldier and

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gentleman, as he passed before our eyes in Virginia, “working
his work.” Seeing him often, in camp, on the field, in bright
days, and when the sky was darkest, the present writer looked
upon him as a noble spirit, the truthful representative of a great
and vigorous race. Brave, just, kindly, courteous, with the tenderness
of a woman under that grave exterior; devoted to his
principles, for which he fought and would have died; loving his
native land with a love “passing the love of woman;” proud,
but never haughty; not so much condescending to men of low
estate, as giving them—if they were soldiers—the warm right
hand of fellowship; merciful, simple-minded; foremost in the
fight, but nowhere to be seen in the antechamber of living man;
with a hand shut tight upon the sword-hilt, but open as day to
“melting charity;” counting his life as nothing at the call of
honour; contending with stubborn resolution for the faith that
was in him; never cast down, never wavering, never giving
back until the torrent bore him away, but fighting to the last
with that heroic courage, born in his blood, for the independence
of his country. Such was Wade Hampton, of South Carolina.
There are those, perhaps, who will malign him in these dark
days, when no sun shines. But the light is yonder, behind the
cloud and storm; some day it will shine out, and a million rushlights
will not be able to extinguish it. There are others who
will call him traitor, and look, perhaps, with pity and contempt
upon this page which claims for him a noble place among the
illustrious figures shining all along the coasts of history like
beacon lights above the storm. Traitor let it be; one hundred
years ago there were many in the South, and they fought over
the same ground. Had the old Revolution failed, those men
would have lived for ever, as Hampton and his associates in the
recent conflict will. “Surrender,” written at the end of this
great history, cannot mar its glory; failure cannot blot its splendour.
The name and fame of Hampton will endure as long as
loyalty and courage are respected by the human race.

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In the Valley of Virginia, the glory of two men outshines
that of all others; two figures were tallest, best beloved, and to-day
are most bitterly mourned. One was Jackson, the other
Ashby. The world knows all about Jackson, but has little
knowledge of Ashby. I was reading a stupid book the
other day in which he was represented as a guerilla—almost as
a robber and highwayman. Ashby a guerilla!—that great,
powerful, trained, and consummate fighter of infantry, cavalry,
and artillery, in the hardest fought battles of the Valley campaign!
Ashby a robber and highwayman!—that soul and perfect
mirror of chivalry! It is to drive away these mists of stupid or
malignant scribblers that the present writer designs recording
here the actual truth of Ashby's character and career. Apart
from what he performed, he was a personage to whom attached
and still attaches a never-dying interest. His career was all
romance—it was as brief, splendid, and evanescent as a dream—
but, after all, it was the man Turner Ashby who was the real
attraction. It was the man whom the people of the Shenandoah
Valley admire, rather than his glorious record. There was something
grander than the achievements of this soldier, and that was
the soldier himself.

Ashby first attracted attention in the spring of 1862, when
Jackson made his great campaign in the Valley, crushing one
after another Banks, Milroy, Shields, Fremont, and their associates.
Among the brilliant figures, the hard fighters grouped

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around the man of Kernstown and Port Republic at that time,
Ashby was perhaps the most notable and famous. As the great
majority of my readers never saw the man, a personal outline
of him here in the beginning may interest. Even on this
soil there are many thousands who never met that model chevalier
and perfect type of manhood. He lives in all memories and
hearts, but not in all eyes.

What the men of Jackson saw at the head of the Valley
cavalry in the spring of 1862, was a man rather below the middle
height, with an active and vigorous frame, clad in plain Confederate
gray. His brown felt hat was decorated with a black
feather; his uniform was almost without decorations: his cavalry
boots, dusty or splashed with mud, came to the knee; and around
his waist he wore a sash and plain leather belt, holding pistol
and sabre. The face of this man of thirty or a little more, was
noticeable. His complexion was as dark as that of an Arab;
his eyes of a deep rich brown, sparkled under well formed
brows; and two thirds of his face was covered by a huge black
beard and moustache; the latter curling at the ends, the former
reaching to his breast. There was thus in the face of the
cavalier something Moorish and brigandish; but all idea of a
melodramatic personage disappeared as you pressed his hand,
looked into his eyes, and spoke to him. The brown eyes, which
would flash superbly in battle, were the softest and most friendly
imaginable; the voice, which could thrill his men as it rang like
a clarion in the charge, was the perfection of mild courtesy. He
was as simple and “friendly” as a child in all his words, movements,
and the carriage of his person. You could see from his
dress, his firm tread, his open and frank glance, that he was a
thorough soldier—indeed he always “looked like work”—but
under the soldier, as plainly was the gentleman. Such in his
plain costume, with his simple manner and retiring modesty,
was Ashby, whose name and fame, a brave comrade has truly
said, will endure as long as the mountains and valleys which he
defended.

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The achievements of Ashby can be barely touched on here—
history will set them in its purest gold. The pages of the splendid
record can only be glanced at now; months of fighting
must here be summed up and dismissed in a few sentences.

To look back to his origin—that always counts for something—
he was the son of a gentleman of Fauquier, and up to 1861
was only known as a hard rider, a gay companion, and the
kindest-hearted of friends. There was absolutely nothing in the
youth's character, apparently, which could detach him from the
great mass of mediocrities; but under that laughing face, that
simple, unassuming manner, was a soul of fire—the unbending
spirit of the hero, and no less the genius of the born master of
the art of war. When the revolution broke out Ashby got in
the saddle, and spent most of his time therein until he fell. It
was at this time—on the threshold of the war—that I saw him
first. I have described his person—his bearing was full of a
charming courtesy. The low, sweet voice made you his friend
before you knew it; and so modest and unassuming was his
demeanour that a child would instinctively have sought his side
and confided in him. The wonder of wonders to me, a few
months afterwards, was that this unknown youth, with the simple
smile, and the retiring, almost shy demeanour, had become
the right hand of Jackson, the terror of the enemy, and had
fallen near the bloody ground of Port Republic, mourned by
the whole nation of Virginia.

Virginia was his first and last love. When he went to Harper's
Ferry in April, 1861, with his brother Richard's cavalry
company, some one said: “Well, Ashby, what flag are we going
to fight under—the Palmetto, or what?” Ashby took off his
hat, and exhibited a small square of silk upon which was
painted the Virginia shield—the Virgin trampling on the tyrant. “That is the flag I intend to fight under,” was his reply; and
he accorded it his paramount fealty to the last. Soon after this
incident active service commenced on the Upper Potomac; and

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an event occurred which changed Ashby's whole character.
His brother Richard, while on a scout near Romney, with a
small detachment, was attacked by a strong party of the enemy,
his command dispersed, and as he attempted to leap a “cattlestop”
in the railroad, his horse fell with him. The enemy
rushed upon him, struck him cruelly with their sabres, and
killed him before he could rise. Ashby came up at the moment,
and with eight men charged them, killing many of them with
his own hand. But his brother was dead—the man whom he
had loved more than his own life; and thereafter he seemed like
another man. Richard Ashby was buried on the banks of the
Potomac—his brother nearly fainted at the grave; then he went
back to his work. “Ashby is now a devoted man,” said one
who knew him; and his career seemed to justify the words.
He took command of his company, was soon promoted to the
rank of a field officer, and from that moment he was on the track
of the enemy day and night. Did private vengeance actuate
the man, once so kind and sweet-tempered? I know not; but
something from this time forward seemed to spur him on to
unflagging exertion and ceaseless activity. Day and night he
was in the saddle. Mounted upon his fleet white horse, he would
often ride, in twenty-four hours, along seventy miles of front,
inspecting his pickets, instructing his detachments, and watching
the enemy's movements at every point. Here to-day, to-morrow
he would be seen nearly a hundred miles distant. The lithe
figure on the white horse “came and went like a dream,” said
one who knew him at that time. And when he appeared it was
almost always the signal for an attack, a raid, or a “scout,” in
which blood would flow.

In the spring of 1862, when Jackson fell back from Winchester,
Ashby, then promoted to the rank of Colonel, commanded
all his cavalry. He was already famous for his wonderful
activity, his heroic courage, and that utter contempt for danger
which was born in his blood. On the Potomac, near Shepherdstown,
he had ridden to the top of a crest, swept by the hot fire
of the enemy's sharpshooters near at hand; and pacing slowly
up and down on his milk-white horse, looked calmly over his

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shoulder at his foes, who directed upon him a storm of bullets.
He was now to give a proof more striking still of his fearless
nerve. Jackson slowly retired from Winchester, the cavalry
under Ashby bringing up the rear, with the enemy closely pressing
them. The long column defiled through the town, and
Ashby remained the last, sitting his horse in the middle of Loudoun
street as the Federal forces poured in. The solitary horseman,
gazing at them with so much nonchalance, was plainly seen
by the Federal officers, and two mounted men were detached to
make a circuit by the back streets, and cut off his retreat.
Ashby either did not see this manœuvre, or paid no attention to
it. He waited until the Federal column was nearly upon him,
and had opened a hot fire—then he turned his horse, waved his
hat around his head, and uttering a cheer of defiance, galloped
off. All at once, as he galloped down the street, he saw before
him the two cavalrymen sent to cut off and capture him. To a
man like Ashby, inwardly chafing at being compelled to retreat,
no sight could be more agreeable. Here was an opportunity to
vent his spleen; and charging the two mounted men, he was soon
upon them. One fell with a bullet through his breast; and,
coming opposite the other, Ashby seized him by the throat,
dragged him from his saddle, and putting spur to his horse, bore
him off. This scene, which some readers may set down for
romance, was witnessed by hundreds both of the Confederate and
the Federal army.

During Jackson's retreat Ashby remained in command of the
rear, fighting at every step with his eavalry and horse artillery,
under Captain Chew. It was dangerous to press such a man.
His sharp claws drew blood. As the little column retired sullenly
up the valley, fighting off the heavy columns of General
Banks, Ashby was in the saddle day and night, and his guns
were never silent. The infantry sank to sleep with that thunder
in their ears, and the same sound was their reveille at dawn.
Weary at last of a proceeding so unproductive, General Banks
ceased the pursuit and fell back to Winchester, when Ashby
pursued in his turn, and quickly sent intelligence to Jackson,
which brought him back to Kernstown. The battle there fol

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ADVENTURE OF ASHBY AT WINCHESTER.—Page 74.
Ashby seized him by the throat, dragged him from his saddle, and putting spur to his horse, bore him off.
[figure description] Illustration page, which depicts General Ashby seizing a Union officer off of his horse by the neck. There is a soldier in front of Ashby, who is trying not to fall off of his horse as Ashby runs into him with his steed. The other soldier is so shocked at being jerked by the throat that he is simply falling forward towards Ashby. In the background a group of Union soldiers is arriving.[end figure description]

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lowed, and Ashby held the turnpike, pressing forward with
invincible ardour, flanking the Federal forces, and nearly getting
in their rear. When Jackson was forced to retire, he again held
the rear; and continued in front of the enemy, eternally skirmishing
with them, until Jackson again advanced to attack
General Banks at Strasburg and Winchester. It was on a bright
May morning that Ashby, moving in front, struck the Federal
column of cavalry in transitu north of Strasburg, and scattered
them like a hurricane. Separated from his command, but bursting
with an ardour which defied control, he charged, by himself,
about five hundred Federal horsemen retreating in disorder,
snatched a guidon from the hands of its bearer, and firing right
and left into the column, summoned the men to surrender.
Many did so, and the rest galloped on, followed by Ashby, to
Winchester, where he threw the guidon, with a laugh, to a
friend, who afterwards had it hung up in the Library of the
Capitol at Richmond.

The work of Ashby then began in earnest. The affair with
General Banks was only a skirmish—the wars of the giants followed.

Jackson, nearly hemmed in by bitter and determined foes,
fell back to escape destruction, and on his track rushed the
heavy columns of Shields and Fremont, which, closing in at
Strasburg and Front Royal, were now hunting down the lion.
It was then and there that Ashby won his fame as a cavalry
officer, and attached to every foot of ground over which he
fought some deathless tradition. The reader must look elsewhere
for a record of those achievements. Space would fail me
were I to touch with the pen's point the hundredth part of that
splendid career. On every hill, in every valley, at every bridge,
Ashby thundered and lightened with his cavalry and artillery.
Bitterest of the bitter was the cavalier in those moments; a man
sworn to hold his ground or die. He played with death, and
dared it everywhere. From every hill came the roar of his guns

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and the sharp crack of his sharpshooters, but the music, much
as he loved it—and he did love it with all his soul—was less
sweet to him than the clash of sabres. It was in hand-to-hand
fighting that he seemed to take the greatest pleasure. In front
of his column, sweeping forward to the charge, Ashby was
“happy.” Coming to the Shenandoah near Newmarket, he
remained behind with a few men to destroy the bridge, and here
took place an event which may seem too trifling to be recorded,
but which produced a notable effect upon the army. While
retreating alone before a squadron of the enemy's cavalry in
hot pursuit of him, his celebrated white horse was mortally
wounded. Furious at this, Ashby cut the foremost of his assailants
out of the saddle with his sabre, and safely reached his
command; but the noble charger was staggering under him, and
bleeding to death. He dismounted, caressed for an instant, without
speaking, the proud neck, and then turned away. The historic
steed was led off to his death, his eyes glaring with rage it
seemed at the enemy still; and Ashby returned to his work,
hastening to meet the fatal bullet which in turn was to strike
him. The death of the white horse who had passed unscathed
through so many battles, preceded only by a few days that of
his rider, whom no ball had ever yet touched. It was on the
4th or 5th of June, just before the battle of Cross Keys, that
he ambuscaded and captured Sir Perey Wyndham, commander
of Fremont's cavalry advance. Sir Percy had publicly announced
his intention to “bag Ashby;” but unwarily advancing
upon a small decoy in the road, he found himself suddenly
attacked in flank and rear by Ashby in person; and he and his
squadron of sixty or seventy men were taken prisoners. That
was the last cavalry fight in which the great leader took part.
His days were numbered—death had marked him. But to the
last he was what he had always been, unresting, fiery, ever on
the enemy's track; and he died in harness. It was on the very
same evening, I believe, that while commanding the rear-guard
of Jackson, he formed the design of flanking and attacking
the enemy's infantry, and sent to Jackson for troops. A brave
associate, Colonel Bradley Johnson, described him at that

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moment, when the bolt was about to fall: “He was riding at the
head of the column with General Ewell, his black face in a blaze
of enthusiasm. Every feature beamed with the joy of the soldier.
He was gesticulating and pointing out the country and
position to General Ewell. I could imagine what he was saying
by the motions of his right arm. I pointed him out to my
adjutant—`Look at Ashby! see how he is enjoying himself!' ”
The moment had come. With the infantry, two regiments sent
him by Jackson, he made a rapid detour to the right, passed
through a field of waving wheat, and approached a belt of woods
upon which the golden sunshine of the calm June evening slept
in mellow splendour. In the edge of this wood Colonel Kane,
of the Pennsylvania “Bucktails,” was drawn up, and soon the
crash of musketry resounded from the bushes along a fence on
the edge of the forest, where the enemy were posted. Ashby
rushed to the assault with the fiery enthusiasm of his blood.
Advancing at the head of the Fifty-eighth Virginia in front,
while Colonel Johnson with the Marylanders attacked the enemy
in flank, he had his horse shot under him, but sprang up,
waving his sword, and shouting, “Virginians, charge!” These
words were his last. From the enemy's line, now within fifty
yards, came a storm of bullets; one pierced his breast, and he
fell at the very moment when the Bucktails broke, and were
pursued by the victorious Southerners. Amid that triumphant
shout the great soul of Ashby passed away. Almost before his
men could raise him he was dead. He had fallen as he wished
to fall—leading a charge, in full war harness, fighting to the last.
Placed on a horse in front of a cavalryman, his body was borne
out of the wood, just as the last rays of sunset tipped with fire
the foliage of the trees; and as the form of the dead chieftain
was borne along the lines of infantry drawn up in column,
exclamations broke forth, and the bosoms of men who had
advanced without a tremor into the bloodiest gulfs of battle,
were shaken by uncontrollable sobs. The dead man had become
their beau-ideal of a soldier; his courage, fire, dash, and unshrinking
nerve had won the hearts of these rough men; and now
when they read upon that pale face the stamp of the hand of

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death, a black pall seemed slowly to descend—the light of the
June evening was a mockery. That sunset was the glory which
fell on the soldier's brow as he passed away. Never did day
light to his death a nobler spirit.

Mere animal courage is a common trait. It was not the chief
glory of this remarkable man that he cared nothing for peril,
daring it with an utter recklessness. Many private soldiers of
whom the world never heard did as much. The supremely beautiful
trait of Ashby was his modesty, his truth, his pure and
knightly honour. His was a nature full of heroism, chivalry, and
simplicity; he was not only a great soldier, but a chevalier,
inspired by the prisca fides of the past. “I was with him,” said
a brave associate, “when the first blow was struck for the cause
which we both had so much at heart, and was with him in his
last fight, always knowing him to be beyond all modern men in
chivalry, as he was equal to any one in courage. He combined
the virtues of Sir Philip Sidney with the dash of Murat. His
fame will live in the valley of Virginia, outside of books, as
long as its hills and mountains shall endure.”

Never was truer comparison than that of Ashby to Murat and
Sidney mingled; but the splendid truth and modesty of the
great English chevalier predominated in him. The Virginian
had the dash and fire of Murat in the charge, nor did the glittering
Marshal at the head of the French cuirassiers perform
greater deeds of daring. But the pure and spotless soul of
Philip Sidney, that “mirror of chivalry,” was the true antetype
of Ashby's. Faith, honour, truth, modesty, a courtesy which
never failed, a loyalty which nothing could affect—these were
the great traits which made the young Virginian so beloved and
honoured, giving him the noble place he held among the men of
his epoch. No man lives who can remember a rude action of
his; his spirit seemed to have been moulded to the perfect shape
of antique courtesy; and nothing could change the pure gold
of his nature. His fault as a soldier was a want of discipline;

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and it has been said with truth that he resembled rather the
chief huntsman of a hunting party than a general—mingling
with his men in bivouac or around the camp fire, on a perfect
equality. But what he wanted in discipline and military rigour
he supplied by the enthusiasm which he aroused in the troops.
They adored him, and rated him before all other leaders. His
wish was their guide in all things; and upon the field they
looked to him as their war-king. The flash of his sabre as it
left the scabbard drove every hand to the hilt; the sight of his
milk-white horse in front was their signal for “attention,” and
the low clear tones of Ashby's order, “Follow me!” as he
moved to the charge, had more effect upon his men than a hundred
bugles.

I pray my Northern reader who does me the honour to peruse
this sketch, not to regard these sentences as the mere rhapsody
of enthusiasm. They contain the truth of Ashby, and those
who served with him will testify to the literal accuracy of the
sketch. He was one of those men who appear only at long intervals—
a veritable realization of the “hero” of popular fancy.
The old days of knighthood seemed to live again as he moved
before the eye; the pure faith of the earlier years was reproduced
and illustrated in his character and career. The anecdotes
which remain of his kindness, his courtesy, and warmth of
heart, are trifles to those who knew him, and required no such
proofs of his sweetness of temper and character. It is nothing
to such that when the Northern ladies about to leave Winchester,
came and said, “General Ashby, we have nothing contraband
about us—you can search our trunks and our persons;” he
replied, “The gentlemen of Virginia do not search ladies' trunks
or their persons, madam.” He made that reply because he was
Ashby. For this man to have been rude, coarse, domineering,
and insulting to unprotected ladies—as more than one Federal
general at Winchester was—that was simply impossible. He
might have said, in the words of the old Ulysses, “They live
their lives, I mine.”

Such was the private character, simple, beautiful, and “

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altogether lovely,” of this man of fibre so hard and unshrinking;
of dash, nerve, obstinacy, and daring never excelled. Behind
that sweet and friendly smile was the stubborn and reckless soul
of the born fighter. Under those brown eyes, as mild and gentle
as a girl's, was a brain of fire—a resolution of invincible
strength which dared to combat every adversary, with whatever
odds. His intellect, outside of his profession, was rather mediocre
than otherwise, and he wrote so badly that few of his productions
are worth preserving. But in the field he was a master
mind. His eye for position was that of the born soldier; and
he was obliged to depend upon that native faculty, for he had
never been to West Point or any other military school. They
might have improved him—they could not have made him.
God had given him the capacity to fight troops; and if the dictum
of an humble writer, loving and admiring him alive, and
now mourning him, be regarded as unreliable, take the words of
Jackson. That cool, taciturn, and unexcitable soldier never
gave praise which was undeserved. Jackson knew Ashby as
well as one human being ever knew another; and after the fall
of the cavalier he wrote of him, “As a partisan officer, I never
knew his superior. His daring was proverbial, his powers of
endurance almost incredible, his tone of character heroic, and
his sagacity almost intuitive in divining the purposes and movements
of the enemy.” The man who wrote these words—himself
daring, enduring, and heroic—had himself some sagacity in
“divining the purposes and movements of the enemy,” and
could recognise that trait in others.

The writer of this page had the honour to know the dead chief
of the Valley cavalry—to hear the sweet accents of his friendly
voice, and meet the friendly glance of the loyal eyes. It seems
to him now, as he remembers Ashby, that the hand he touched
was that of a veritable child of chivalry. Never did taint of
arrogance or vanity, of rudeness or discourtesy, touch that pure
and beautiful spirit. This man of daring so proverbial, of powers
of endurance so incredible, of character so heroic, and of a
sagacity so unfailing that it drew forth the praise of Jackson,

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was as simple as a child, and never seemed to dream that he had
accomplished anything to make him famous. But famous he
was, and is, and will be for ever. The bitter struggle in which
he bore so noble a part has ended; the great flag under which
he fought is furled, and none are now so poor as to do it reverence.
But in failure, defeat, and ruin, this great name survives;
the cloud is not so black that the pure star of Ashby's fame
does not shine out in the darkness. In the memories and hearts
of the people of the Valley his glory is as fresh to-day as when
he fell. He rises up in memory, as once before the actual eye—
the cavalier on his milk-white steed, leading the wild charge, or
slowly pacing up and down defiantly, with proud face turned
over the shoulder, amid the bullets. Others may forget him—
we of the Valley cannot. For us his noble smile still shines as
it shone amid those glorious encounters of the days of Jackson,
when from every hill-top he hurled defiance upon Banks and
Fremont, and in every valley met the heavy columns of the
Federal cavalry, sabre to sabre. He is dead, but still lives.
That career—brief, fiery, crammed with glorious shocks, with
desperate encounters—is a thing of the past, and Ashby has
“passed like a dream away.” But it is only the bodies of such
men that die. All that is noble in them survives. What comes
to the mind now when we pronounce the name of Ashby, is
that pure devotion to truth and honour which shone in every
act of his life; that kind, good heart of his which made all love
him; that resolution which he early made, to spend the last
drop of his blood for the cause in which he fought; and the
daring beyond all words, which drove him on to combat whatever
force was in his front. We are proud—leave us that at
least—that this good knight came of the honest old Virginia
blood. He tried to do his duty; and counted toil, and danger,
and hunger, and thirst, and exhaustion, as nothing. He died as
he had lived, in harness, and fighting to the last. In an unknown
skirmish, of which not even the name is preserved, the
fatal bullet came; the wave of death rolled over him, and the
august figure disappeared. But that form is not lost in the

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great gulf of forgotten things. Oblivion cannot hide it, nor
time dim the splendour of the good knight's shield. The figure
of Ashby, on his milk-white steed, his face in “a blaze of enthusiasm,”
his drawn sword in his hand—that figure will truly
live in the memory and heart of the Virginian as long as the
battlements of the Blue Ridge stand, and the Shenandoah flows.

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The most uniformly fortunate General of the late war was
Beauregard. So marked was this circumstance, and so regularly
did victory perch upon his standard, that Daniel, the trenchant
and hardy critic of the Examiner, called him Beauregard Felix.
Among the Romans that term signified happy, fortunate, favoured
of the gods; and what is called “good luck” seemed to follow
the Confederate leader to whom it was applied. Often he
appeared to be outgeneralled, checkmated, and driven to the
“last ditch,” but ever some fortunate circumstance intervened to
change the whole situation. More than once the fortune of war
seemed to go against him, but he always retrieved the day by
some surprising movement. In the very beginning of his career,
at the first great battle of Manassas, when his left was about to
be driven to hopeless rout, his good genius sent thither Evans
and Jackson, those stubborn obstacles, and the battle which was
nearly lost terminated in a victory.

Of this famous soldier I propose to record some traits rather
of a personal than a military character. As elsewhere in this
series of sketches, the writer's aim will be to draw the outline of
the man rather than the official. History will busy itself with
that “official” phase; here it is rather the human being, as he
lived and moved, and looked when “off duty,” that I aim to
present. The first great dramatic scene of the war, the attack
on Sumter, the stubborn and victorious combat of Shiloh, the
defence of Charleston against Gilmore, the assault upon Butler

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near Bermuda Hundred, and the mighty struggles at Petersburg,
will not enter into this sketch at all. I beg to conduct the
reader back to the summer of the year 1861, and to the plains
of Manassas, where I first saw Beauregard. My object is to
describe the personal traits and peculiarities of the great Creole
as he then appeared to the Virginians, among whom he came for
the first time.

He superseded Bonham in command of the forces at Manassas
about the first of June, 1861, and the South Carolinians said
one day, “Old Bory's come!” Soon the Virginia troops had an
opportunity of seeing this “Old Bory,” who seemed so popular
with the Palmettese. He did not appear with any of the
“pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war.” No flag was
unfurled before him; no glittering staff officers were seen galloping
to and fro; for some days the very presence of the man
of Sumter was merely rumour. Then the troops began to take
notice of a quiet-looking individual in an old blue uniform coat
of the United States Army, almost undecorated, who, mounted
on an unimposing animal not at all resembling a “war horse,”
moved about quite unattended, to inspect the works in process
of construction, or select new sites for others. Often this solitary
horseman of the reserved demeanour and unobtrusive air was
seen motionless in the middle of the plains, gazing around him;
or in clear relief against the sky, or looking toward Bull Run,
he peopled the landscape doubtless with imaginary squadrons in
hot conflict. Then another step was taken by the men in
making acquaintance with the new commander. The silent
horseman would pause as he passed by the camps, and speak to
the sentinels—briefly but not stiffly. When they returned to
their quarters they told how General Beauregard had thus
stopped upon his way, spoken with them familiarly as comrade
to comrade, and returned their salute at parting, with his finger
to the rim of his cap. Finally, the troops had “a good look at
him.” He reviewed a fine regiment from Tennessee, and all
eyes were fixed upon his soldierly figure with admiration—
upon the lithe and sinewy form, the brunette face and sparkling
black eyes, the erect head, the firm seat in the saddle, and the

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air of command. When this nervous figure passed at a rapid
gallop along the line, the keen eyes peering from beneath the
Zouave cap, the raw volunteers felt the presence of a soldier.

The hard battle of Manassas followed, and as noon approached
on that famous twenty-first of July, the Southern army seemed
completely flanked—Beauregard outgeneralled. McDowell had
turned the Confederate left, and, driving Evans, Bee, and Bartow
before him, seized on the Henry-House hill, the key of the
whole position. Beauregard was four miles off, awaiting an
advance of his right wing and centre on the Federal rear at
Centreville, ordered hours before. The order miscarried, and
the advance was not made; at near two o'clock the troops were
still within the lines of Bull Run, and on the extreme left
nothing but the two thousand six hundred and eleven muskets of
Jackson, with a few companies of Bee, was interposed between
the Southern troops and destruction. About thirty thousand
men under General Hunter were advancing upon about three
thousand—and to this critical point Beauregard now went at a
swift gallop, with General Johnston. The scene which followed
was a splendid exhibition of personal magnetism. Bee's men
were routed; his ranks broken to pieces; the battalions which
had breasted the torrent had been shattered by the weight of the
huge wave, and were now scarcely more than a crowd of fugitives.
Johnston, with the fiery dash which lay perdu under
his grave exterior, caught the colours of an Alabama regiment,
calling on the men to follow him; and Beauregard passed along
the lines at full gallop, rallying the men amid the terrific fire.
If he is ever painted, it should be as he appeared that day;
eyes flaming, the sallow face in a blaze of enthusiasm, the drawn
sword pointing to the enemy, as with a sonorous voice which
rang above the firing, he summonded the men to stand for their
firesides, and all they held dear upon earth. Beauregard was
the superb leader at that moment, and the cheeks of the gray-haired
soldier of to-day must flush sometimes as he recalls
that death grapple in which the flash of his sword led the
charge.

When not thus filled with hot blood, the face of the great

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Creole, even amid the heat of battle, was composed, firm, set, and
did not exhibit, save in a slight deepening of the dusky tint of
the complexion, any unwonted feeling. The man was quiet,
silent, and seemed to be waiting calmly. I never saw a smile
upon his face until some months after the battle, when President
Davis came to review the troops at Fairfax Court-House. That
smile was caused by a little incident which may entertain some
readers. The present writer was sent one day as aide-de-camp
in waiting, to escort the wife and little son of General Stuart
from the Court-House to the nearest station on the Orange railroad;
when, just as the ambulance reached a point midway
between the two points, a company of cavalry made its appearance
in front, and the officer commanding requested that the
vehicle should draw out of the road to “make way for the
President.” This was done at once, and soon his Excellency,
President Davis, appeared, riding between Stuart and Beauregard—
the latter wearing his dress uniform with a Zouave cap,
the crown of which was an intensely dazzling circle of scarlet,
burning in the sunshine. As soon as young J. E. B. Stuart, a
little gentleman who used to call himself General Stuart, Jr.,
saw his father, he stretched out his arms and exclaimed, “Papa,
papa!” in a tone so enthusiastic that it attracted attention, and
General Stuart said, “This is my family, Mr. President.”
Whereupon Mr. Davis stopped, saluted the young lady, patted
the boy upon the head, and endeavoured to attract his attention,
in which he failed however, as the boy's mind was absorbed in
the effort to climb before his father. The scene made everybody
laugh, from the grave President to the men of the escort, and
among the rest General Beauregard. His laugh was peculiar;
the eyes sparkled, the firm muscles slowly moved, and the
white teeth came out with a quite startling effect under the
heavy black moustache. When the cavalcade passed on he was
still smiling.

I pray the reader to pardon this long description of a smile.
The strangest of all phenomena is the manner in which trifles
cling to the memory.

One more personal recollection of Beauregard as I saw him—

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not on review, neither at Manassas, Fairfax, or elsewhere; a
stiff official figure in front of the lines, but in private, and this
time on the outpost. It was at “Camp Qui-Vive,” the headquarters
of Stuart, beyond Centreville, and in December, 1861.
He came to dine and ride out on the lines to inspect the cavalry
pickets; and it is not difficult to recall what manner of man he
was—so striking was his appearance. He wore the uniform coat
of an officer of the United States Army, dark blue with gilt
buttons and a stiff collar. The closely buttoned garment displayed
his vigorous chest; from the upper edge protruded a
sharp, white, standing collar, and he wore the inseparable Zouave
cap, with its straight rim projecting over the eyes.

The face of the soldier speedily drew attention, however, from
his dress. The countenance, with its broad brow, firm mouth,
covered with a heavy black moustache, and protruding chin, full
of courage and resolution, was that of a French Marshal of the
Empire to the very life. The iron nerve of the man was indelibly
stamped upon his features. It was impossible to doubt the
fighting instincts of the individual with that muscular contour
of face which seemed to defy opposition. The rest of the physiognomy
was gaunt, hard, somewhat melancholy. In the complexion
was observable the Southern creole descent of the soldier;
it was brunette, sallow, and the sun and wind had made
it resemble bronze. It had the dusky pallor, too, of care and
watching—that bloodless hue which the pressure of heavy
responsibilities produces in the human face. The position of an
army leader is not a bed of roses, and the bloom of youth and
health soon fades from the cheeks which are hollowed by the
anxieties of command. Such was the appearance of the “Man
of Sumter,” but I have omitted the most striking feature of his
face—the eyes. Large, dark, melancholy, with the lids drooping
and somewhat inflamed by long vigils—of a peculiar dreamy
expression—those eyes impressed the beholder very strangely.
It was the eye of the bloodhound with his fighting instincts
asleep, but ready at any moment to be strung for action. It was
impossible not to be impressed by this resemblance. Not that
there was any ferocity or thirst for blood in that slumbrous

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glance; but if ever “fight” was plain in any look—obstinate,
pertinacious, hard “fight”—it was plain in Beauregard's.

The outline here drawn of the General's appearance may produce
the impression that he was stiff, stern, and unsocial. Such
was very far from the fact. On the contrary, the manner of the
individual was eminently modest, courteous, and pleasing. This
may seem to clash with the bloodhound illustration—but both
were true. It would be difficult to imagine a finer air of grave
politeness, or a more courtly simplicity than General Beauregard's.
Of this the writer took especial note, for at that period
a great many very foolish things were written and published in
relation to the eminent soldier. It was said that he was frigid,
moody, unsocial, rude, repulsing all advances to friendly converse
with a military coolness amounting to discourtesy. Stray
correspondents of the journals had drawn a curious figure and
labelled it “Beauregard”—the figure of a sombre, mysterious,
and melodramatic personage, prone to attitudinizing and playing
the “distinguished warrior;” fond of wrapping his cloak
around him, folding his arms, and turning his back when any
one addressed him, as though absorbed in some gigantic scheme
upon which his mighty brain was working, in a region far above
the dull, cold, every-day earth! Such was the Beauregard of
many “intelligent correspondents”—play-actor turned soldier;
a sort of Manfred in gray uniform; and lo! here before me was
the real man. Instead of a mock hero of tragedy stalking about
and muttering, the General appeared to me to be a gentleman
of great courtesy and simplicity, who asked nothing better than
for some kind friend to amuse him and make him laugh.

For the General laughed; and when he did so, he, strangely
enough, seemed to enjoy himself. Standing on the portico of
the old house in which Stuart had established his quarters, or
partaking of his dinner with mundane satisfaction, he appeared
entirely oblivious that he was “Beauregard the Great Tragedian,”
and joined in the conversation simply and naturally,

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losing no opportunity to relax by laughter the weary facial
muscles which had settled into something like grimness and melancholy
from care and meditation. The conversation turned
during the day upon the first battle of Manassas; and when some
one mentioned the report in many Northern journals that he,
Beauregard, had continued to ride a horse after the animal's head
was carried off by a cannon-ball, the General's moustache curled
and he chuckled in the most untragic manner. “My horse was
killed,” he said, “but his head was not carried away. He was
struck by a shell, which exploded at the moment when it passed
under him. A splinter struck my boot, and another cut one
of the arteries in the animal's body. The blood gushed out, and
after going fifty yards he fell dead. I then mounted a prisoner's
horse—there was a map of the country in the saddle pocket—
and I remember it was a small dingy horse with a white face.”
Laughter followed the remembrance of the small dingy horse with
the white face; and when one of the company observed that
“General Beauregard had done himself considerable credit in
Missouri,” meaning to have said “General Price,” the General
burst into a laugh which indicated decided enjoyment of the
mistake.

The incidents here recorded are not to be found in any of the
regular histories; and I doubt if any description will be found
of the manner in which General Beauregard essayed to assist a
young lady bearing a very famous name, to mount her horse.
The lady in question was a very charming person, an intimate
friend of General Stuart; and as she was then upon a visit to
the neighbourhood of Centreville, she was invited by the gay
cavalier to dine with Beauregard, and afterwards ride out upon
the lines under escort. A young aide was sent for Miss—;
she duly arrived, and dined at the outpost headquarters, and
then the moment came to set out for the lines. Before she had
taken two steps toward her horse, General Beauregard was at
her side, completely distancing the young Prince Polignac, that
brave and smiling youth, afterwards Brigadier-General, but at
this time serving upon Beauregard's staff. To see the grave
commander assist the fair young lady to mount her horse was a

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pleasing sight, and communicated much innocent enjoyment to
the spectators. He brought to the undertaking all the chivalric
gallantry and politeness of the French De Beauregards; stooping
down with an air of the deepest respect; hollowing his hand
to receive her slipper; and looking up to ascertain why she did
not take advantage of his offer. Whether it was that the young
lady thought it indecorous to make such use of that distinguished
hand, or did not need his aid, I know not; she laughed,
gracefully vaulted into her saddle, and mounting his own steed,
the General gallantly took his place at her side.

These things are recorded in place of the “important events”
of Beauregard's career. A narrative of his military operations
may be found in the “regular histories,” and an estimate of his
merits as a commander. Upon this latter point a diversity of
opinion exists, owing to the tragic termination of the recent conflict.
The secret archives of the Confederate government were
destroyed, or remain unpublished. Many questions thus remain
unanswered. Was Beauregard fully aware of the enemy's movement
against his left at Manassas, and did he disregard it, depending
on his great assault at Centreville? Did he, or did he not,
counsel an advance upon Washington after the battle—an
advance which events now known show to have been perfectly
practicable? Were his movements on Corinth, in the West,
judicious? Were his operations at Petersburg in accordance
with the views of the government? All these questions remain
unanswered; for the dispatches containing the solution of the
whole were destroyed or are inaccessible to the world. One fact
is unfortunately very well known—that there was “no love
lost” between the celebrated soldier and the Confederate Executive;
and by a portion of the Southern press little praise was
accorded him. But he did not need it. The victor of Manassas
and Shiloh, the man who clung to Sumter until it was a mass
of blackened ruins, will be remembered when partisan rancour
and injustice are forgotten. Fame knows her children, and her
bugle sounds across the years.

A notable trait in the personal character of Beauregard was
his kindly bonhomie to the private soldier. In this he resembled

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the officers of Napoleon, not those of the English Army. He
had the French habit of mingling with the men when not upon
duty, sharing their pursuits, conversing with them, and lighting
his cigar at their camp fires. From this sprang much of his personal
popularity, and he thus excited largely that sympathy
which rendered him so acceptable to his troops. To a General,
nothing is more important than this sympathy. It is a weapon
with which the master soldier strikes his hardest blows, and
often springs from apparent trifles. Napoleon became the idol
of his troops as much by his personal bearing toward them as
from his victories. He was the grand Napoleon—but he stopped
to talk with the men by their fires: he called them “mes enfans:”
he fixed his dark eyes with magnetic sympathy upon the dying
soldier who summoned his last remains of strength to half rise
from the earth, extend his arms, and cry, “Vive l'Empereur!”
He took this personal interest in them—the interest of a comrade—
and no one else could rival him in their favour.

Beauregard had certainly secured this personal popularity.
He invariably exhibited the utmost kindness, compatible with
discipline, toward his men, and they remained true to him—as
the Federal troops did to McClellan—through all his reverses,
giving him in return for his sympathy and familiarity an immense
amount of good feeling and regard. A trifling incident
will illustrate this. A private soldier of the “Powhatan troop”—
a company of cavalry which served as the General's body-guard—
one day entered Beauregard's apartment, and wishing
to write a letter, seated himself, as he supposed, at the desk of
one of the clerks for that purpose. Taking a sheet of paper and
a pen which lay near, he commenced his letter, and was soon
absorbed in it. While thus engaged, he heard a step behind
him, turned his head, and saw General Beauregard enter, whereupon
he suddenly rose in confusion—for all at once the truth
flashed upon him that he was writing at the General's desk, on the
General's paper, and with the General's pen!
Fearing a harsh
rebuke for this act of military lesè-majesté, the trooper stammered
out an apology; but no storm came from the General. “Sit
down and finish your letter my friend,” he said, with a

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good-humoured smile; “you are very welcome, and can always come
in here when you wish to write.” It was trifles like this which
made the announcement of his removal from the command of the
Army of the Potomac run like an electric shock through the
camps, which caused a great concourse of soldiers to follow him
through Centreville and far upon his road, shouting “Good-by,
General!”—“God bless you, General!”

To suppose that this brother-feeling of the soldier for his troops
ever led him to relax in discipline, would be a great mistake.
In official matters, and wherever “duty” was concerned, he was
rigid and immovable, exacted from every man under him the
strictest obedience, and was wholly inaccessible to any prayer
which came in conflict with the good of the public service.
When at Centreville, in the fall of 1861, he expected daily an
advance of McClellan. One morning a cannoneer from one of
the batteries came in person to ask for a leave of absence of ten
days to see his dying mother. “I cannot grant any leave,” was
the reply. “Only for ten days, General,” pleaded the soldier.
“Not for ten hours!” replied Beauregard; and the interview
terminated. Had the moment not been critical he would have
given this private soldier the desired leave with the utmost
readiness—as he would have commended and promoted him, for
the display of skill or gallantry.

That all-important point of rewarding merit in the private
soldier was never neglected by Beauregard. An instance was
the promotion of a young man in the Loudoun cavalry, whose
conspicuous courage and efficiency in reconnoitring and carrying
orders at Manassas attracted his attention. At the close
of the day the obscure private was summoned to headquarters
and informed by Beauregard that he would henceforth rank as
a captain of his staff. This gentleman was afterwards Colonel
Henry E. Peyton, Inspector-General of the Army of Northern
Virginia, one of the bravest and most accomplished officers in
the service.

A last incident relating to “Beauregard the Great Tragedian,”
who was supposed to be playing “Lara,” “Manfred,” or
some other sombre and mysterious character at Manassas, in

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those far away times. It may add an additional touch to the
outline I have aimed to draw. It was in the summer of 1861
that some young ladies of Prince William prepared a handsome
nosegay for presentation to the General; and as he had
amongst his clerks a gentleman of high culture, the nosegay
was entrusted to him for delivery. He consented with reluctance.
To present a bunch of flowers to the silent and abstracted
commander, whose faculties were burdened by great cares
and responsibilities, seemed an incongruity which strangely
impressed the ambassador; but there was the nosegay, there
were the young ladies, there was his promise, and he nerved
himself for the task. Waiting until all intruders had left the
General's presence, he timidly knocked at the door of his
sanctum, was bidden in a grave voice to enter, and advancing
into the apartment, found opposite to him the imposing
eye and “brow severe” of General Beauregard, who had never
looked more stern. The spectacle very nearly disarmed the
ambassador of his presence of mind; but he determined to
accomplish his errand in the best manner possible, and accordingly
proceeded to address the solemn General in what the
newspapers call a “neat little speech.” Having finished, he
presented the flowers, drew back respectfully, and nerved himself
for the result. That result surprisingly differed from his
expectations. Beauregard cleared his throat, looked extremely
confused, and stammering “Thank you! I am very much
obliged!” received the bouquet, blushing as he did so like a
girl. Such was the tragedy-hero of those journalists of 1861.

I have tried to draw an outline of the actual man, not to make
a figure of the fancy; to present an accurate likeness of General
Beauregard as he appeared to us of Virginia in those first
months of the war, not to drape the individual in historic robes,
making him an actor or a myth.

He was neither; he was simply a great soldier, and a finished
gentleman. Once in his presence, you would not be apt to deny

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his claim to both of these characters. The nervous figure; the
gaunt, French, fighting, brunette countenance, deeply bronzed
by sun and wind—these were the marks of the soldier. The
grave, high-bred politeness; the ready, courteous smile; the
kindly and simple bearing, wholly free from affectation and assumption—
these were the characteristics of the gentilhomme by
birth and habit; by nature as by breeding.

Ten minutes' conversation with the man convinced you that
you stood in the presence of one of those men who mould
events. The very flash of the dark eyes “dared you to forget.”

Nor will the South forget this brave and trusty soldier. His
name is cut upon the marble of history in letters too deep to be
effaced by the hand of Time, that terrible disintegrator. As
long as the words “Manassas” and “Shiloh” strike a chord in
the bosoms of men, the name “Beauregard” will also stir the
pulses. Those mighty confliets meet us in the early epoch of
the war, grim, bloody, and possessing a tragedy of their own.
The soldier who fought those battles confronts us, too, with an
individuality of mind and body which cannot be mistaken.
Lee is the Virginian, Hood the Texan; Beauregard is the marshal
of Napoleon—or at least he looked thus in those early days
when the soldiers of Virginia, gathering at Manassas, closely
scanned the form and features of their new commander.

From Virginia the great captain went to the West, where, as
the world knows, he won new laurels; and to the end he continued
to justify his title of “The Fortunate.” That is only,
however, another name for The Able, The Skilful, The Master
of events—not by “luck,” but by brains. Good-fortune is an
angel who files from the weak and fearful, but yields herself
captive to the resolute soul who clutches her. If any doubted
that Beauregard owed his great success to the deepest thought,
the most exhausting brain-work, and those sleepless vigils which
wear out the life, they had only to look upon him in his latter
years to discover the truth. Care, meditation, watching—all
the huge responsibility of an army leader—had stamped on the
brow of the great Creole their unmistakable impress. The heavy
moustache, which had once been as black as the raven's wing,

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was now grizzled like the beard. In the hair, which before was
dark, now shone those silver threads which toil and anxiety
weave mercilessly in the locks of their victims. The mouth
smiled still, but the muscles had assumed a grimmer tension.
The eyes were still brilliant, but more deeply sunken and more
slumbrous. In the broad brow, once so smooth, the iron hand
of care had ploughed the inexorable furrows.

Beauregard the youthful, daring, and impetuous soldier, had
become Beauregard the cautious, thoughtful, self-sacrificing
patriot—one of the great props of the mighty edifice then tottering
beneath the heavy blows it was receiving in Virginia and
the West.

“The self-sacrificing patriot.” If any one doubts his claim to
that title, it will not be doubted when events now buried in
obscurity are known. Beauregard was superb when, in the midst
of the dense smoke of Manassas, he shouted in his inspiring
voice, “I salute the Eighth Georgia with my hat off! History
shall never forget you!” But he was greater still—more noble
and more glorious—when after the battle of Corinth he said
nothing.

He was silent, and is silent still; but history speaks for him,
and will ever speak. He lives in the memories and the hearts
of his old soldiers, as in the pages of our annals; and those who
followed his flag, who listened to his voice, need no page like
this to bring his figure back, as it blazed before their eyes in the
far away year '61. They remember him always, and salute him
from their hearts—as does the writer of these lines.

Wherever you may be, General—whether in Rome or New
Orleans, in the Old World or the New—whether in sickness or
in health, in joy or in sorrow—your old soldiers of the Army
of Virginia remember you, and wish you long life, health, and
happiness, from their heart of hearts.

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In the Virginia Convention of 1860-61, when the great struggle
for separation took place, and the hot war of tongues preceded
the desperate war of the bayonet, there was a gentleman
of resolute courage and military experience who made himself
prominent among the opponents of secession. Belonging to the
old Whig party, and thinking apparently that the right moment
had not yet come, this resolute soldier-politician fought the advocates
of the ordinance with unyielding persistence, aiming by his
hard-hitting argument, his kindling eloquence, and his parliamentary
skill, to give to the action of the Convention that
direction which his judgment approved. Many called him a
“submissionist,” because he opposed secession then; but when
the gauntlet was thrown down, this “Whig submissionist” put
on a gray coat, took the field, and fought from the beginning to
the very end of the war with a courage and persistence surpassed
by no Southerner who took part in the conflict. When he was
sent to invade Maryland, and afterwards was left by General
Lee in command of that “forlorn hope,” the little Valley army,
if it could be called such, in the winter of 1864-5, he was
selected for the work, because it required the brain and courage
of the soldier of hard and stubborn fibre. Only since the termination
of the war has the world discovered the truth of that
great campaign; the desperate character of the situation which
Early occupied, and the enormous odds against which he
fought.

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He entered upon the great arena almost unknown. He had
served in the Mexican war, and had there displayed skill and
courage; but his position was a subordinate one, and he was
better known as a politican than a soldier. In the field he
made his mark at once. About four o'clock in the afternoon of
the 21st of July, 1861, at Manassas, the Federal forces had been
driven by the resolute assault of Jackson and his great associates
from the Henry-House hill; but a new and formidable
line-of-battle was formed on the high ground beyond, near
Dogan's house, and the swarming masses of Federal infantry
were thrown forward for a last desperate charge. The object of
the Federal commander was to outflank and envelop the Confederate
left, and his right wing swayed forward to accomplish
that object, when all at once from the woods, which the enemy
were aiming to gain, came a galling fire which staggered and
drove them back. This fire was delivered by Kirby Smith and
Early. So hot was it that it completely checked the Federal
charge; and as they wavered, the Southern lines pressed forward
with wild cheers. The enemy were forced to give ground.
Their ranks broke, and in thirty minutes the grand army was in
full retreat across Bull Run. The “Whig Submissionist” had
won his spurs in the first great battle of the war. From that time
Early was in active service, and did hard work everywhere—in
the Peninsula, where he was severely wounded in the hard struggle
of Malvern Hill, and then as General Early, at Cedar Mountain,
where he met and repulsed a vigorous advance of General
Pope's left wing, in the very inception of the battle. If Early had
given way there, Ewell's column on the high ground to his right
would have been cut off from the main body; but the ground
was obstinately held, and victory followed. Advancing northward
thereafter, Jackson threw two brigades across at Warrenton
Springs, under Early, and these resolutely held their ground
in face of an overpowering force. Thenceforward Early continued
to add to his reputation as a hard fighter—at Bristoe, the
second Manassas, Harper's Ferry, Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg,
Gettysburg, Spottsylvania, Monocacy, and throughout the Valley
campaign. During the invasion of Pennsylvania he led

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General Lee's advance, which reached the Susquehanna and captured
York. In Spottsylvania be commanded Hill's corps, and
was in the desperate fighting at the time of the assault upon the
famous “Horseshoe,” and repulsed an attack of Burnside's corps
with heavy loss to his opponents. After that hard and bitter
struggle the Federal commander gave up all hope of forcing
General Lee's lines, and moving by the left flank reached Cold
Harbour, where the obstinate struggle recommenced. It was
at this moment, when almost overpowered by the great force
arrayed against him, that General Lee received intelligence of
the advance of General Hunter up the Valley with a considerable
army; and it was necessary to detach a commander of ability,
vigour, and daring to meet that column. Early was selected,
and the result is known. General Hunter advanced, in spite
of opposition from the cavalry under General Jones, until he
reached the vicinity of Lynchburg; but here he came in colision
with his dangerous adversary. A complete defeat of the
Federal forces followed, and Hunter's campaign was decided at
one blow. He gave ground, retreated, and, with constantly
accelerated speed, sought refuge in the western mountains,
whence, with a decimated and disheartened army, he hastened
towards the Ohio. The great advance up the Valley, from
which, as his report shows, General Grant had expected so
much, had thus completely failed. The campaign beginning
with such high hopes, had terminated in ignominy and disaster.
The inhabitants of the region, subjected by General Hunter to
the most merciless treatment, saw their powerful oppressor in
hopeless retreat; and an advance which threatened to paralyse
Lee, and by severing his communications, drive him from Virginia,
had been completely defeated. Such was the first evidence
given by General Early of his ability as a corps commander,
operating without an immediate superior.

He was destined to figure now, however, in scenes more striking
and “dramatie” still. General Grant, with about 150,000
men, was pressing General Lee with about 50,000, and forcing
him slowly back upon the Confederate capital. Every resource
of the Confederacy was strained to meet this terrible assault—

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the sinews almost broken in the effort. To divert reinforcements
from General Grant was a matter of vital importance—a
thing of life and death—and Jackson's Valley campaign in 1862
had shown how this could be most effectually done. To menace
the Federal capital was evidently the great secret: a moderate
force would not probably be able to do more than divert troops
from Grant; but this was an object of the first importance, and
much might be accomplished by a soldier of decision, energy,
and rapidity of movement. Early had been selected for the
work, with orders when he left the lowland to “move to the
Valley through Swift Run Gap or Brown's Gap, attack Hunter,
and then cross the Potomac and threaten Washington.” This
critical task he now undertook with alacrity, and he accomplished
it with very great skill and success.

Not a moment was lost in pushing his column toward
Maryland; and such was the rapidity of the march upon
Washington, that the capital was placed in imminent danger.
In spite of the prostrating heat, the troops made twenty
miles a day, and the rumour of this determined advance
came to the Federal authorities at the moment when Grant was
supposed to be carrying everything before him. To meet the
attack of their formidable adversary, the authorities at Washington
sent to hurry forward the forces of General Hunter from the
Ohio, and a considerable force from General Grant's army was
dispatched up the bay to man the fortifications. Early had
pressed on, crossed the Potomac, advanced to Frederick City,
defeated General Wallace at the Monocacy, and was now in sight
of the defences of Washington; the crack of his skirmishers was
heard at the “White House” and in the department buildings
of the capital. The enormous march, however, had broken
down and decimated his army. The five hundred miles of
incessant advance, at twenty miles a day, left him only eight
thousand infantry, about forty field-pieces, and two thousand
badly mounted cavalry—at the moment detached against the
railroads northward—with which to assault the powerful works,
bristling with cannon, in his front. His position at this moment
was certainly critical, and calculated to try the nerves of any but

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a resolute and daring soldier. He was in the heart of the
enemy's country, or at least in sight of their capital city; in his
front, according to Mr. Stanton, the Federal Secretary of War,
was the Sixth and part of the Eighth and Nineteenth Corps, and
General Hunter was hastening from the West to strike his rear
and cut him off from his only avenue of retreat across the
Potomac. It behoved the Confederate commander under these
circumstances to look to his safety; and he was reluctantly compelled
to give up his intended assault upon the capital—to
abandon the attempt to seize the rich prize apparently in his
very grasp. Early, accordingly, broke up his camp, retreated,
and, with little molestation, recrossed the Potomac, and stood at
bay on the Opequon in the Shenandoah Valley.

Such had been the result of the daring advance upon the
Federal capital. The extent of the danger to which Washington
was then exposed, still remains a matter of doubt and difference
of opinion among the most intelligent persons. It will, no
doubt, be accurately defined when the events of the recent struggle
come to be closely investigated by the impartial historian of
the future, and the truth is sifted from the error. To the world
at large, the Federal capital seemed in no little danger on that
July morning, when Early's lines were seen advancing to the
attack. Northern writers state that, if the assault had been
made on the day before, it would have resulted in the capture
of the city. But however well or ill-founded this may be, it is
safe to say that the primary object of the march had been
accomplished when Early retreated and posted himself in the
Shenandoah Valley—a standing threat to repeat his audacious
enterprise. It was no longer a mere detached column that
opposed him, but an army of about 50,000 men. To that extent
General Grant had been weakened, and the heavy weight upon
General Lee's shoulders lightened.

These events took place in the summer of 1864, and in the
autumn of that year General Early fought his famous battles,

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and—the world said—sustained his ignominious defeats in the
Shenandoah Valley. “Ignominious” was the adjective which
expressed the views of nine-tenths of the citizens outside of the
immediate region, and probably of one-half the army of Northern
Virginia. In the eyes of the world there is a crime for
which there is no palliation, and that is failure. There is a
criminal to whom all defence is denied—it is the man who fails.
No matter what the failure results from, there it is, and no
explanations are “in order.” Early was defeated in a pitched
battle near Winchester, on the 19th of September, and the
country, gloomy, despondent, embittered, and elamouring for
a victory, broke out into curses almost at the man who had sustained
this reverse. It was his bad generalship, they cried;
“the troops had no confidence in him;” he was the poorest of
soldiers, the veriest sham general—else why, with his splendid
army,
did he allow a second or third-rate general like Sheridan
to defeat him? When the defeat at Fisher's Hill followed, and
the fiasco at Waynesboro' terminated the Valley campaign, people
were convinced that General Jubal A. Early was a very
great dunce in military matters, had been outgeneralled and
outfought by an opponent little, if any, stronger than himself,
and the whole campaign was stigmatized as a disgraceful series
of blunders, ending in well-merited defeat and disaster.

That was the popular clamour; but it is safe to say that popular
clamour is essentially falsehood, because it is based upon
passion and ignorance. The truth of that campaign is that
Early was “leading a forlorn hope,” and that he never fought
less than four to one. At Fisher's Hill and Waynesboro', he
fought about eight to one. It is not upon General Early's
statements in his recent letter from Havana, that the present
writer makes the above allegation, but upon the testimony of
officers and citizens of the highest character who are unanimous
in their statement to the above effect. From the date
of the battle of Winchester, or the Opequon, to the present
time, it has been persistently declared by the fairest and best
informed gentlemen of the surrounding region, who had excellent
opportunities to discover the truth, that Early's force in

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that fight was about eight or ten thousand, and Sheridan's
about forty or fifty thousand. General Early states upon his
honour—and the world is apt to believe him—that his effective
strength in this action was eight thousand five hundred muskets,
three battalions of artillery, and less than three thousand
cavalry. General Sheridan's force he makes, upon a close
calculation, about thirty-five thousand muskets, one of his
corps alone numbering, as captured documents showed, twelve
thousand men—more than the whole Southern force, infantry,
cavalry, and artillery. In the number of guns Sheridan, he
says, was, “vastly superior” to him; and official reports captured
showed the Federal cavalry “present for duty” two days
before the battle, to have numbered ten thousand men.* There

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was thus a terrible disproportion between the Federal and
Confederate forces. Greatly outnumbered in artillery; with
thirty-five thousand muskets opposed to his eight thousand five

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hundred; and ten thousand excellently mounted and armed
eavalry to his three thousand miserably mounted and equipped
horsemen; Early occupied anything but a bed of roses in
those days of September, when his little force so defiantly
faced the powerful army opposed to it.

Why he was not attacked and driven up the Valley long
before the 19th of September, will remain an interesting historical
problem. Nothing but the unceasing activity and audacity
of the Confederate commander appears to have retarded
this consummation. General Hunter seems to have been paralysed,
or intimidated by the incessant movements of his wary
opponent. From the period of his return to the Valley from
Washington, Early had given his adversary no breathing
spell. To-day he seemed retreating up the Valley; on the
next day he was in Maryland; when he fell back and his
adversary followed, a sudden and decisive blow at the head
of the pursuing column threw the whole Federal programme
into confusion; and grim and defiant, Early faced General
Hunter in line of battle, defying him to make an attack.

It will be hard to establish the statement that in these movements,
during the summer and autumn of 1864, in the Shenandoah
Valley, Early did not carry out in the fullest degree the
instructions received from General Lee, and accomplish admirably
the objects for which he had been sent to that region.
He was placed there as Jackson had been in 1862, to divert a
portion of the Federal forces from the great arena of combat
in the lowland. By his movements before and after the battle
of Kernstown, Jackson, with about four thousand men, kept
about twenty-five thousand of the enemy in the Valley. By
his movements preceding the battle of Opequon, Early, with
eight or ten thousand men, kept between forty and fifty thousand
from General Meade's army at Petersburg. That he
could meet the Federal force in his front, in a fair pitched battle,
was not probably believed by himself or by General Lee.
His command was essentially what he calls it, a “forlorn hope”—
the hope that it could cope with its opponents being truly
forlorn. As long as that opponent was amused, retarded, or

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kept at arm's length, all was well. When he advanced to
attack in earnest, it was doubtless foreseen that the thirty or
forty thousand bayonets would drive back the eight or nine
thousand. That result followed on the 19th of September,
when, Sheridan having superseded Hunter, the attack was
made at the Opequon. And yet nothing is better established
than the fact that up to the moment when he put his cavalry
in motion against the Confederate left, General Sheridan had
been virtually defeated. Every assault of his great force of
infantry had been repulsed; and nowhere does this more
clearly appear than in an account of the action published in
Harper's Magazine, by a field officer, apparently of one of the
Federal regiments. That account is fair, lucid, and records
the precise truth, namely, that every advance of the Federal
infantry was met and repulsed. Not until the ten thousand
cavalry of General Sheridan advanced on the Martinsburg
road, attained the Confederate rear, and charged them in flank
and rear, was there the least wavering. It is true that from
that moment the action was lost. Early's line gave way in
confusion; his artillery was fought to the muzzle of the guns,
but could do nothing unsupported; and that night the Confederate
forces were in full retreat up the Valley.

Such, divested of all gloss and rodomontade, was the battle
on the Opequon. It was a clear and unmistakable defeat, but
the reader has seen what produced it. Not want of generalship
in the Confederate commander. It is gross injustice to
him to charge him with the responsibility of that reverse; and
no fair mind, North or South, will do so. He was defeated,
because the force opposed to him was such as his command
could not compete with. By heroic fighting, the little band
kept back the swarming forces of the enemy, holding their
ground with the nerve of veterans who had fought in a hundred
battles; but when the numerous and excellently armed
cavalry of the enemy thundered down upon their flank and
rear, they gave up the struggle, and yielded the hard fought
day.

The second act of this exciting drama was played at Fisher's

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Hill, three days afterward. Sullenly retiring like a wounded
wolf, who snarls and shows his teeth at every step, Early took
up a position on the great range of hills above Strasburg, and
waited to be attacked. His design was to repulse any assault,
and at nightfall retire; but the enemy's large numbers enabling
them to turn his flank, they drove him from his position,
and he was forced to fall back in disorder, with heavy loss.
This result was charged upon the cavalry, but Early's small
force could not defend the ground, and the Federals assuredly
gained few laurels there. So heavy had been the blow struck
by the great force of the enemy three days before, that it is
wonderful how the Southern troops could make any stand
at all. Early's loss in the battle of the Opequon, in killed,
wounded, and “missing”—that terrible item in a defeated and
retreating army—was so great, that it is doubtful whether his
army, when it stood at bay on Fisher's Hill, numbered four
thousand muskets. Such, at least, is the statement of intelligent
and veracious officers who took part in the engagement.
They are unanimous in declaring that it did not exceed that
number. Sheridan's force they declare to have been overpowering,
but the Southern troops could and did meet it when the
attack was made in front. Not until the great force of the
enemy enabled him to turn the left flank of Early and sweep
right down his line of works, did the troops give way. Numbers
overcame everything.

Early retreated up the Valley, where he continued to present
a defiant front to the powerful force of Sheridan, until the
middle of October. On the 19th he was again at Cedar Creek,
between Strasburg and Winchester, and had struck an almost
mortal blow at General Sheridan. The Federal forces were
surprised, attacked at the same moment in front and flank,
and driven in complete rout from their camps. Unfortunately
this great success did not effect substantial results. The enemy,
who largely outnumbered Early, especially in their excellent
cavalry, re-formed their line under General Wright. Sheridan,
who had just arrived, exerted himself to retrieve the bad fortune
of the day, and the Confederates were forced to retire in

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their turn. General Early's account of this event is interesting:
“I went into this fight,” he says, “with eight thousand five
hundred muskets, about forty pieces of artillery, and about
twelve hundred cavalry, as the rest of my cavalry, which was
guarding the Luray Valley, did not get up in time, though
ordered to move at the same time I moved to the attack.
Sheridan's infantry had been recruited fully up to its strength
at Winchester, and his cavalry numbered eight thousand seven
hundred, as shown by the official reports captured. The main
cause why the rout of his army in the morning was not complete,
was the fact that my cavalry could not compete with his,
and the latter, therefore, remained intact. He claimed all his
own guns that had been captured in the morning, and afterward
recaptured, as so many guns captured from me, whereas
I lost only twenty-three guns; and the loss of these and the
wagons which were taken, was mainly owing to the fact that
a bridge, on a narrow part of the road between Cedar Creek
and Fisher's Hill, broke down, and the guns and wagons, which
latter were not numerous, could not be brought off. Pursuit
was not made to Mount Jackson, as stated by both Grant and
Stanton, but my troops were halted for the night at Fisher's
Hill, three miles from Cedar Creek, and the next day moved
back to New Market, six miles from Mount Jackson, without
any pursuit at all.”

Thus terminated the Valley campaign of 1864. In November,
Early again advanced nearly to Winchester, but his offer
of battle was refused, and he went into winter quarters near
Staunton, with the small and exhausted force which remained
with him, the second corps having been returned to General
Lee. He had then only a handful of cavalry and a “corporal's
guard” of infantry. In February, 1865, when the days of
the Confederacy were numbered and the end was near, he was
to give the quidnuncs and his enemies generally one more opportunity
of denouncing his bad generalship and utter unfitness
for command. In those dark days, when hope was sinking
and the public “pulse was low,” every reverse enraged the
people. The whole country was nervous, excited, irascible,

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exacting. The people would hear no explanations—they
wanted victories. Such was the state of public sentiment
when intelligence came from the mountains that Early's
“army” had been again attacked, this time near Staunton, and
owing to the excessively bad generalship of that officer, had
sustained utter and ignominious defeat. How many thousands
of men had thus been defeated was not exactly stated; but
the public said that it was an “army.” It was one thousand
infantry and about six pieces of artillery. This force was
attacked by two divisions of cavalry, numbering five thousand
each—ten thousand in all. Early had not a mounted man, his
entire cavalry force, with the rest of his artillery, having been
sent off to forage. By the great force of the enemy, Early
was driven beyond the mountains, his command hopelessly
defeated, and his name was everywhere covered with obloquy
and insult. He said nothing, waiting with the equanimity of
a brave man for the moment which would enable him to justify
himself. He has done it now; and no manly heart will read
his noble words without respect for this true patriot and fearless
soldier. “Obvious reasons of policy,” he says, “prevented
any publication of these facts during the war, and it will now
be seen that I was leading a forlorn hope all the time, and the peo
ple can appreciate the character of the victories won by Sheridan
over me.

But this is General Early's account of the campaign, it may
be said. It is natural—some persons even now may say—that
he should endeavour by “special pleading” to lift from his
name the weight of obloquv, and strive to show that he was not
deficient in military ability, in courage, skill, and energy. The
objection is just; no man is an altogether fair witness in regard
to his own character and actions. Somewhere, a fault will be
palliated, a merit exaggerated. Fortunately for Early's fame—
unfortunately for the theory of his enemies—a document of the
most conclusive character exists, and with that paper in his hand,
the brave soldier may fearlessly present himself before the bar
of history. It is the letter of General Lee, to him, dated March
30, 1865, three days before that “beginning of the end,” the

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evacuation of Petersburg. The clamour against Early had accomplished
the object of many of those who raised it. His
ability was distrusted; he was regarded as unfit for command;
“remove him!” was the cry of the people. Here is General
Lee's letter relieving him of his command. It would be an
injustice to the good name of Early to suppress a line of it.

Hd. Qrs. C. S. Armies, March 30, 1865.
Lieut.-Gen. J. A. Early, Franklin C. H., Va.:

Dear Sir: My telegram will have informed you that I deem
a change of commanders in your department necessary, but it is
due to your zealous and patriotic services that I should explain
the reasons that prompted my action. The situation of affairs
is such that we can neglect no means calculated to develop the
resources we possess to the greatest extent, and make them as
efficient as possible. To this end it is essential that we should
have the cheerful and hearty support of the people and the full
confidence of the soldiers, without which our efforts would be
embarrassed, and our means of resistance weakened. I have
reluctantly arrived at the conclusion that you cannot command
the united and willing co-operation which is so essential to success.
Your reverses in the Valley, of which the public and the
army judge chiefly by the results, have, I fear, impaired your
influence both with the people and the soldiers, and would add
greatly to the difficulties which will, under any circumstances,
attend our military operations in S. W. Va. While my own
confidence in your ability, zeal, and devotion to the cause, is unimpaired,
I have nevertheless felt that I could not oppose what
seems to be the current of opinion, without injustice to your
reputation and injury to the service. I therefore felt constrained
to endeavour to find a commander who would be more likely to
develop the strength and resources of the country and inspire
the soldiers with confidence, and to accomplish this purpose,
thought it proper to yield my own opinion, and defer to that of
those to whom alone we can look for support. I am sure that
you will understand and appreciate my motives, and that no one
will be more ready than yourself to acquiesce in any measure

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which the interests of the country may seem to require, regardless
of all personal considerations. Thanking you for the fidelity
and energy with which you have always supported my efforts,
and for the courage and devotion you have ever manifested in
the service of the country, I am, very respectfully and truly,
your obedient servant,

“R. E. LEE, General.”

In defeat, poverty, and exile, this recognition of his merit remains
to that brave soldier; and it is enough. There is something
better than the applauses of the multitude—something
which will outweigh in history the clamour of the ignorant or
the hostile; it is this testimony of Robert E. Lee to the “zealous
and patriotic services” of the man to whom it refers; to the
“ability, zeal, devotion, fidelity, energy, and courage” which he
had “ever manifested in the service of the country,” leaving the
“confidence” of the Commander-in-Chief in him “unimpaired.”

eaf521n2

* An interesting discussion has taken place in the journals of the day, in reference
to the forces of Early and Sheridan at the battle of the Opequon. The latter
replied to Early's statement by charging him with falsifying history; and this
reply drew forth in turu statements from Southern officers—some sentences from
which are quoted:

“I know of my own personal knowledge,” wrote an officer in the New Orleans
Picayune, January 13, 1866, “that General Early's statement is correct, when he
states that he had about eight thousand five hundred muskets in the second
engagement with General Sheridan. I was a staff officer for four years in the
army of Northern Virginia. I was a division staff officer, Second Army Corps,
under General Early's command, from the time the Second Corps was detached
from the Army of Northern Virginia, June 1864, to the time it was ordered to
Petersburg, December, 1864. I was present at the battles of Winchester, Fisher's
Hill, and Cedar Creek. I know from the official reports that I myself made, and
from actual observation at reviews, drills, inspections in camp, and on the march,
the effective strength of every brigade and division of infantry under General
Early's command (of the cavalry and artillery I cannot speak so authoritatively),
and I can therefore assert that in neither one of these actions above mentioned,
did General Early carry nine thousand men (infantry) into the fight.”

One who served on Early's staff,” writes in the New York News of February
10, 1866:

“The writer of this has in his possession the highest and most conclusive evidence
of the truth of Early's statement of his infantry force; and in fact without
this proof, it could have been substantially established by the evidence here in
Lynchburg of these facts, that fifteen trains of the Virginia and Alexandria Railroad
(no one train of a capacity of carrying five hundred men) brought the whole
of the Second Corps of the Confederate Army under division commanders Gordon.
Rodes, and Ramseur to this place: that Breckenridge's division, then here,
was only about two thousand men: and that these were all of the infantry carried
from this place by Early down the Valley after his chase of Hunter. It will
thus be perceived that Early's estimate (eight thousand five hundred) was quite
full so far; and after the Winchester and Fisher's Hill engagements, his statement
that Kershaw's division of two thousand seven hundred then added, did
not exceed his previous losses, ought certainly not to be objected to by Sheridan,
who assails Early's veracity with the assertion that he inflicted on him a loss of
twenty-six thousand eight hundred and thirty-one men!”

The Richmond Times says: “Of General Early's actual force on the 19th of September,
1864, the day of the battle of Winchester, his first defeat, we can give
statistics nearly official, procured from an officer of rank who held a high com
mand during the campaign, and who had every opportunity of knowing. Early's
infantry consisted of

Gordon's Division 2,000
Ramseur's Division 2,000
Rodes' Division 2,500
Breckenridge's Division 1,800
Total Infantry 8,300

CAVALRY—FITZ LEE'S DIVISION.

Wickham's Brigade 1,000
Lomax's old Brigade 600

LOMAX'S DIVISION.

McCauseland's Brigade 800
Johnson's Brigade 700
Imboden's Brigade 400
Jackson's Brigade 300
Total Cavalry 3,800

ARTILLERY.

Three Battalions Light Artillery 40 guns.
One Battalion Horse Artillery 12 guns.
Total guns 52 guns

About one thousand artillerists.

“This recapitulation embraces all the forces of Early's command. General
Sheridan, according to official statements, had under his command over thirty-five
thousand muskets, eight thousand sabres, and a proportionate quantity of artillery.”

The force of Sheridan is not a matter of dispute: that of Early is defined with
sufficient accuracy by the above statements from honourable officers.

In concluding this sketch, an attempt will be made to give the
reader some idea of the personal character and appearance of the
brave man who, in his letter from Havana, has made that calm
and decorons appeal to posterity.

General Early, during the war, appeared to be a person of
middle age; was nearly six feet in height; and, in spite of severe
attacks of rheumatism, could undergo great fatigue. His hair
was dark and thin, his eyes bright, his smile ready and expressive,
though somewhat sarcastic. His dress was plain gray,
with few decorations. Long exposure had made his old coat
quite dingy. A wide-brimmed hat overshadowed his sparkling
eyes and forehead, browned by sun and wind. In those sparkling
eyes could be read the resolute character of the man, as in
his smile was seen the evidence of that dry, trenchant, often
mordant humour, for which he was famous.

The keen glance drove home the wit or humour, and every
one who ventured upon word-combats with Lieutenant-General

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Early sustained “a palpable hit.” About some of his utterances
there was a grim effectiveness which it would be hard to excel.
There was a member of the Virginia Convention who had called
him a “submissionist” in that body, but when the war commenced,
hired a substitute, and remained at home, though
healthy and only forty. Early the “submissionist” went into
the army, fought hard, and then one day in 1862 met his quondam
critic, who said to him, “It was very hard to get you to go
out
”—alluding to Early's course in the Convention on secession.
Early's eye flashed, his lip curled. “Yes,” he replied, looking
at the black broadcloth of his companion, “but it is a d—d sight
harder to get you up to the fighting.” There was another member
of the Convention who had often criticised him, and dwelt upon
the importance of “maintaining our rights in the territories at all
hazards.” This gentleman, being aged, did not go into the army;
and one day when Early met him, during the retreat from
Manassas, the General said, with his customary wit, “Well,
Mr. M—, what do you think about getting our rights in the
territories now? It looks like we were going to lose some of
our own territory, don't it?” When General Lee's surrender
was announced to him, while lying nearly dead in his ambulance,
he muttered to his surgeon, “Doctor, I wish there was powder
enough in the centre of the earth to blow it to atoms. I would
apply the torch with the greatest pleasure. If Gabriel ever
means to blow his horn, now is the time for him to do it—no
more joyful sound could fall on my ears.”

These hits he evidently enjoyed, and he delivered them with the
coolness of a swordsman making a mortal lunge. In fact, everything
about General Early was bold, straightforward, masculine,
and incisive. Combativeness was one of his great traits.

There were many persons in and out of the army who doubted
the soundness of his judgment; there were none who ever
called in question the tough fibre of his courage. He was universally
recognised in the Army of Northern Virginia as one
of the hardest fighters of the struggle; and every confidence
was felt in him as a combatant, even by his personal enemies.
This repute he had won on many fields, from the first Manassas

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to Winchester; for one of the hardest fights of the war, if it
was a defeat, was that affair on the Opequon.

It was not so much good judgment that General Early wanted
in his Valley campaign, as troops. He was “leading a forlorn
hope,” and forlorn hopes rarely succeed. “He has done as well
as any one could,” General Lee is reported to have said; and the
Commander-in-Chief had better opportunities of forming a correct
opinion than others.

Returning to Early the man, what most impressed those who
were thrown with him, was that satirical, sometimes cynical
humour, and the force and vigour of his conversation. His
voice was not pleasing, but his “talk” was excellent. His
intellect was evidently strong, combative, aggressive in all domains
of thought; his utterance direct, hard-hitting, and telling.
He was a forcible speaker; had been successful at the bar;
and in the army, as in civil life, made his way by the
independent force of his mind and character—by his strong will,
sustained energy, and the native vigour of his faculties. Sarcastic
and critical, he was criticised in return, as a man of rough
address, irascible temperament, and as wholly careless whom he
offended. So said his enemies—those who called in question
his brains and judgment. What they could not call in question,
however, was his “zeal, fidelity, and devotion,” or they will
not do so to-day. Robert E. Lee has borne his supreme and
lasting testimony upon that subject, and the brave and hardy
soldier who led that forlorn hope in the Shenandoah Valley,
when the hours of a great conflict were numbered, and darkness
began to settle like a pall upon the land illustrated by such
heroic struggles, by victories so splendid—the brave and hardy
Early at last has justice done him, and can claim for himself
that, when the day was darkest, when all hearts desponded, he
was zealous, faithful, devoted. If the world is not convinced by
the testimony of Lee, that this man was devoted to his country,
and true as steel to the flag under which he fought—true to it in
disaster and defeat as in success and victory—let them read the
letter of the exile, signing himself “J. A. Early, Lieut.-Gen.
C. S. A.”

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I was reading the other day a work entitled “Jack Mosby,
the Guerilla,” by a certain “Lieutenant-Colonel —,” of the
United States Army. The book is exceedingly sanguinary.
Colonel Mosby is therein represented as a tall, powerful, blackbearded,
cruel, and remorseless brigand of the Fra Diavolo order,
whose chief amusement was to hang up Federal soldiers by their
arms, and kindle fires under their feet—for what reason is not explained;
and when not thus pleasantly engaged, he is described
as cutting down the unfortunate bluecoats with a tremendous
sabre, or riddling them with bullets from an extensive assortment
of pistols in his belt. He has a sweetheart—for “Lieutenant-Colonel—”
enters into his hero's most private affairs—who
makes love to Union officers, and leads them into the toils of the
remorseless Mosby. That individual exclaims in moments of
excitement, “Confusion!” after the universal fashion of Confederate
States officers in the late war; and in order to make the
history of his life a full and comprehensive one, the minutest
particulars are given of his well known scheme to burn the city
of New York—a brilliant idea, exclusively belonging to this
celebrated bandit, who is vividly represented in a cheap woodcut
as pouring liquid phosphorus on his bed at the Astor
House. This biographical work is “profusely illustrated,” beautifully
bound in a yellow paper cover, and the price is “only
ten cents.”

It may be said that this is, after all, a species of literature, “

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socalled,” such as no person of character or intelligence ever reads.
Such is doubtless the truth in regard to Lieutenant-Colonel—'s
silly performance; but is it equally certain that there are no
citizens of the Northern States, both fair-minded and cultivated,
who regard Colonel Mosby in some such light as that in which
he is here represented? I am afraid the number is considerable.
He has been so persistently described as a desperado, such as
infests the outskirts of civilization, that some impression must
have been made by his traducers. Dr. Johnson said that almost
anything could be accomplished by incessantly talking about it;
and so many people have reiterated these charges against Colonel
Mosby, that a belief in them has, beyond any doubt, fixed itself
upon the minds of many fair and candid persons. It is for this
class, whose good opinion is worth something, that I propose to
state the truth in relation to his character and career. Though
in no manner attached to his command, the present writer occupied
a position during the late war which enabled him to watch
this officer's operations from the commencement almost to the
end of the struggle; and what is here set down in relation to
him may be relied upon as an honest statement by one who has
no object in the world in making it except to record the truth.

Without further preface, it may surprise some of my Northern
readers to hear that this man, figuring in the popular eye as
a ruffian and low adventurer, was born and bred, and is in
character and manners, a gentleman. His family is one of
standing and intelligence in Virginia, and he was educated at
the University of Virginia, where he studied law. He commenced
the practice, married, and would probably have passed
through life as a “county court lawyer” had not the war taken
place. When Virginia seceded he imitated other young men,
and embarked in the struggle as a private in a regiment of
cavalry. Here he exhibited courage and activity, and eventually
became first-lieutenant and adjutant. When the miserable
“reorganization” system of the Confederate States government
went into operation in the spring of 1862, and the men were
allowed to select their officers, Mosby—never an easy or indulgent
officer—was thrown out, and again became a private. He

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returned to the ranks; but his energy and activity had been
frequently exhibited, and General Stuart, who possessed a
remarkable talent for discovering conspicuous military merit of
any sort in obscure persons, speedily sent for him, and from that
time employed him as a scout or partisan. It is proper to warn
the reader here that a scout is not a spy. Mosby's duty was to
penetrate the region of country occupied by the Federal forces,
either alone or in command of a small detachment of cavalry;
and by hovering in the woods around the Union camps, interrogating
citizens, or capturing pickets or stragglers, acquire information
of the enemy's numbers, position, or designs. If this
information could be obtained without a collision, all the better;
but, if necessary, it was the duty and the habit of the Scouts to
attack, or when attacked, hold their ground as long as possible.
In other words, there was inaugurated in the country occupied
by the Federal forces a regular system of partisan warfare, the
object of which was to harass the invading force, and in every
way impair its efficiency.

It was at this time that I first saw Mosby, and his appearance
was wholly undistinguished. He was thin, wiry, and I should
say about five feet nine or ten inches in height. A slight stoop
in the neck was not ungraceful. The chin was carried well
forward; the lips were thin and wore a some what satirical smile;
the eyes, under the brown felt hat, were keen, sparkling, and
roved curiously from side to side. He wore a gray uniform,
with no arms but two revolvers in his belt; the sabre was no
favourite with him. His voice was low, and a smile was often
on his lips. He rarely sat still ten minutes. Such was his
appearance at that time. No one would have been struck with
anything noticeable in him except the eyes. These flashed at
times in a way which might have induced the opinion that there
was something in the man, if it only had an opportunity to
“come out.”

I am not aware that he gained any reputation in the campaign
of 1862. He was considered, however, by General Stuart an
excellent scout and partisan; and the General once related to the
present writer with great glee, the manner in which Mosby had

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taken nine men, deployed them over several hundred yards, and
advanced, firing steadily upon a whole brigade of Federal
cavalry, which hastily retired under the impression that the
attacking force was heavy. Such things were common with
Mosby, who seemed to enjoy them greatly; but in the spring
of 1862 the tables were turned upon the partisan. General
Stuart sent him from the Chickahominy to carry a confidential
message to General Jackson, then in the Valley. He was resting
at one of the wayside stations on the Central Railroad while
his horse was feeding, when a detachment of Federal cavalry surprised
and captured him—making prize also of a private note
from Stuart to Jackson, and a copy of Napoleon's “Maxims”
accompanying it. Mosby was carried to the Old Capitol, but
was soon exchanged; and chancing to discover on his route
down the bay that General Burnside was going soon to reinforce
General Pope in Culpeper, he hastened on his arrival with
that important information to General Lee, who telegraphed it,
doubtless, to General Jackson at Gordonsville. It is probable
that the battle of Cedar Run, where General Pope was defeated,
was fought by Jackson in consequence of this information.

My object, however, is not to write a biography of Colonel
Mosby. It is fortunate that such is not my design; for a career
of wonderful activity extending over about three years could
not be condensed into a brief paper. I shall speak of but one or
two other incidents in his career; and one shall be his surprise
of Brigadier-General Stoughton at Fairfax Court-House in the
winter of 1862. This affair excited unbounded indignation on
the part of many excellent people, though President Lincoln
made a jest of it. Let us not see if it was not a legitimate partisan
operation. It was in November, I believe, that Mosby received
the information leading to his movement. The Federal forces
at that time occupied the region between Fredericksburg and
Alexandria; and as General Stuart's activity and energy were
just causes of solicitude, a strong body of infantry, cavalry, and
artillery, was posted in the neighbourhood of Fairfax Court-House
and Centreville. Colonel Wyndham was in command
of the cavalry, and Acting Brigadier-General Stoughton, a young

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officer from West Point, commanded the whole district, with his
headquarters in the small village of Fairfax. Mosby formed
the design of capturing General Stoughton, Colonel Wyndham,
Colonel Johnson, and other officers; and sent scouts to the
neighbourhood to ascertain the force there. They brought
word that a strong body of infantry and artillery was at Centreville;
Colonel Wyndham's brigade of cavalry at Germantown,
a mile from Fairfax; and toward the railroad station another
brigade of infantry. Fairfax thus appeared to be inclosed within
a cordon of all arms, rendering it wholly impossible even to
approach it. Those who know the ground, as many of my
readers doubtless do, will easily understand how desperate the
undertaking appeared of penetrating to the town, and safely
carrying off the Federal commandant. It was one of those
schemes, however, whose very boldness is apt to cause them to
succeed. Men rarely guard against dangers which they do not
dream it possible can threaten them. Mosby doubtless based his
calculations upon this fact; at any rate he decided upon the
movement, and with twenty-nine men set out one dark and
drizzling November night for the scene of operations. Newspaper
writers of the day stated that the party were dressed in
Federal uniforms. This is not true. There was no sort of
advantage in any such precaution. The party had to steal off
with their captures, if any were made, or cut their way through,
and on that black night no uniform was discernible. Mosby
approached Germantown by the Little River turnpike; but fearing
Wyndham's cavalry, obliqued to the right, and took to the
woods skirting the Warrenton road. Centreville was thus, with
its garrison, on his right and rear, Germantown on his left, and
Fairfax, winged with infantry camps, in his front. It was now
raining heavily, and the night was like pitch. The party
advanced by bridle-paths through the woods, thus avoiding the
pickets of the main avenues of approach, and the incessant patter
of the rain drowned the hoof-strokes of the horses. A mile from
Fairfax the gleam of tents greeted them in front, and finding the
approaches barred in that direction they silently obliqued to the
right again, crossed the Warrenton road, and gradually drew

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near the town on the southern side. Again the woods and the
rain served them. Their advance was undiscovered, and at last
they were close upon the place. An infantry picket was the
only obstacle, but this was soon removed. The sleepy vidette
found a pistol at his breast, and the picket was compelled to surrender
without firing a shot. The way was then clear, and
Mosby entered the town at a gallop. His object was to capture
the Federal officers known to be in the place, burn the public
stores, and carry off as many horses as possible. His party was
accordingly divided for these purposes, and Mosby himself proceeded
to General Stoughton's residence. It was afterwards
said that a young lady of the place, Miss Ford, had supplied him
with information, and now led him personally to the house.
This, Colonel Mosby stated to the present writer, was entirely a
mistake; he received information neither from Miss Ford nor any
one else, except his own scouts. To accompany him, however, in
his visit to General Stoughton, he found an orderly at the door,
who was taken charge of by one of the men, and then mounted
to the general's bedchamber, the occupant of which was fast
asleep. At Mosby's unceremonious “Get up, General, and come
with me!” the sleeper started erect, and demanded: “Do you
know who I am, sir?” apparently indignant at such want of
ceremony. “Do you know Mosby, General?” was the reply.
“Yes,” was the eager response, “have you got the—rascal?”
“No, but he has got you!” And to the startled “What does
this mean, sir?” of General Stoughton, Mosby replied, “It means
that General Stuart's cavalry are in possession of the Court-House,
sir, and that you are my prisoner.” This disagreeable state of
affairs slowly dawned upon the aroused sleeper, and he soon found
himself dressed, mounted, and ready to set out—a prisoner. Several
staff officers had also been captured, and a considerable number
of horses—Colonels Wyndham and Johnson eluded the search
for them. Deciding not to burn the public stores which were in
the houses, Mosby then mounted all his prisoners—some thirty-five,
I believe, in number, including about half-a-dozen officers—
cautiously retraced his steps, passing over the very same ground,
and stealing along about down under the muzzles of the guns in

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the works at Centreville, so close that the sentinel hailed the
party, swam Cub Run, struck southward, and at sunrise was
safe beyond pursuit.

The skill and boldness exhibited in the conception and execution
of this raid conferred upon Mosby just fame as a partisan
officer, and the regular organization of his command commenced.
He was made captain, then major, then lieutenant-colonel, and
colonel, as his force and his operations increased.

From the solitary scout, or humble partisan, operating with a
small squad, he had now grown to be an officer of rank and distinction,
entrusted with important duties, and eventually with
the guardianship of the whole extent of country north of the
Rappahannock and east of the Blue Ridge. The people of the
region speak of it, with a laugh, as “Mosby's Confederacy,” and
the name will probably adhere to it, in the popular mind, for
many years to come. Let us pass to these latter days when
“Colonel” Mosby gave the Federal forces so much trouble, and
aroused so much indignation in Custer, Sheridan, and others,
whose men he captured, and whose convoys he so frequently cut
off and destroyed. The question of most interest is—Was Colonel
Mosby a partisan officer, engaged in a perfectly legitimate warfare,
or was he a mere robber? The present writer regards any
imputations upon the character of this officer, or upon the nature
of the warfare which he carried on, as absurd. If the Confederate
States army generally was a mere unlawful combination, and
not entitled to be regarded as “belligerent,” the case is made
out; but there was no officer in that army who occupied a
more formally official position than Mosby, or whose operations
more perfectly conformed to the rules of civilized warfare. Virginia
was invaded by the Federal forces, and large portions of
her territory were occupied and laid under contribution. Especially
was the country north of the Rappahannock thus exposed.
It was a species of border-land which belonged to the party
which could hold it; and to protect it from the inroads of

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the Federal forces, Mosby instituted a regular system of partisan
warfare. His headquarters were generally near Upperville,
just east of the ridge, and his scouts speedily brought him intelligence
of any advance of the Federal cavalry. As soon as he was
informed of their approach, he went to meet them, hovered near
them, took his moment, and attacked them, his superior skill
and knowledge of the country almost uniformly routing the force
opposed to him. Another important part of his duty was to cut
off and capture or destroy the trains of his adversaries. These
things were exceedingly annoying, and made the Federal commanders
whose movements were thus crippled quite furious
against the author of their embarrassments—but no person with
the least knowledge of military affairs will stigmatize the destruction
of wagon trains as the work of a brigand. In the same
manner the railroads supplying the Federal forces with commissary
and other stores were destroyed wherever it could be done.
Detached parties out foraging were, if possible, captured. Camps,
picket posts, vedette stations, were surprised, when practicable,
and prisoners seized upon. To harass, annoy, injure, and in
every manner cripple or embarrass the opposing force, was the
object of Colonel Mosby, as it has been of partisan officers in
all the wars of history. The violent animosity felt toward him
was attributable solely to the great skill, vigour, and success of
his operations. The present writer has a tolerably full acquaintance
with the military record of Colonel Mosby and his command,
and he states, in all sincerity, that he can find in it nothing
whatever that is “irregular” or unworthy of an officer and a
gentleman. Mosby carried on a legitimate partisan warfare
under a regular commission from the President of the Confederate
States, and was in command of a regularly organized body
of cavalry. He announced clearly his intention of disputing
military possession of the country north of the Rappahannock,
of harassing, retarding, or crippling any force invading Virginia,
and of inflicting as much injury as possible upon his opponents.
One single act of seeming cruelty is charged against him, the
hanging of seven of Custer's men—but this was in retaliation for
seven of his own which had been executed by that officer. This

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retaliation was in accordance with the rules of warfare in every
country, and his superiors disavowed the course of General Custer,
and directed such proceedings to cease.

We have expended too much space upon this point. Colonel
Mosby can afford to wait to have justice done him. He was
respected by Jackson, Stuart, and Lee, and the world will not
willingly believe him to have been a bandit.

What was the appearance and character of the actual individual?
What manner of personages were “Mosby and his
men,” as they really lived, and moved, and had their being in
the forests and on the hills of Fauquier, in Virginia, in the years
1863 and 1864? If the reader will accompany me, I will conduct
him to this beautiful region swept by the mountain winds,
and will introduce him—remember, the date is 1864—to a plain
and unassuming personage clad in gray, with three stars upon
his coat-collar, and two pistols in his belt.

He is slender, gaunt, and active in figure; his feet are small,
and cased in cavalry boots, with brass spurs; and the revolvers
in his belt are worn with an air of “business” which is unmistakable.
The face of this person is tanned, beardless, youthfullooking,
and pleasant. He has white and regular teeth, which
his habitual smile reveals. His piercing eyes flash out from
beneath his brown hat, with its golden cord, and he reins in his
horse with the ease of a practised rider. A plain soldier, low
and slight of stature, ready to talk, to laugh, to ride, to oblige
you in any way—such was Mosby, in outward appearance.
Nature had given no sign but the restless, roving, flashing eye,
that there was much worth considering beneath. The eye did
not convey a false expression. The commonplace exterior of
the partisan concealed one of the most active, daring, and penetrating
minds of an epoch fruitful in such. Mosby was born to
be a partisan leader, and as such was probably greater than any
other who took part in the late war. He had by nature all the
qualities which make the accomplished ranger; nothing could

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daunt him; his activity of mind and body—call it, if you choose,
restless, eternal love of movement—was something wonderful;
and that untiring energy which is the secret of half the great
successes of history, drove him incessantly to plan, to scheme, to
conceive, and to execute. He could not rest when there was
anything to do, and scouted for his amusement, charging pickets
solus by way of sport. On dark and rainy nights, when other
men aim at being comfortably housed, Mosby liked to be moving
with a detachment of his men to surprise and attack some
Federal camp, or to “run in” some picket, and occasion consternation,
if not inflict injury.

The peculiar feature of his command was that the men occupied
no stated camp, and, in fact, were never kept together
except on an expedition. They were scattered throughout the
country, especially among the small farm-houses in the spurs of
the Blue Ridge; and here they lived the merriest lives imaginable.
They were subjected to none of the hardships and privations
of regular soldiers. Their horses were in comfortable
stables, or ranged freely over excellent pastures; the men lived
with the families, slept in beds, and had nothing to do with
“rations” of hard bread and bacon. Milk, butter, and all the
household luxuries of peace were at their command; and not
until their chief summoned them did they buckle on their arms
and get to horse. While they were thus living on the fat of the
land, Mosby was perhaps scouting off on his private account,
somewhere down toward Manassas, Alexandria, or Leesburg.
If his excursions revealed an opening for successful operations,
he sent off a well mounted courier, who travelled rapidly to the
first nest of rangers; thence a fresh courier carried the summons
elsewhere; and in a few hours twenty, thirty, or fifty men,
excellently mounted, made their appearance at the prescribed
rendezvous. The man who disregarded or evaded the second
summons to a raid was summarily dealt with; he received a note
for delivery to General Stuart, and on reaching the cavalry headquarters
was directed to return to the company in the regular
service from which he had been transferred. This seldom happened,
however. The men were all anxious to go upon raids,

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to share the rich spoils, and were prompt at the rendezvous.
Once assembled, the rangers fell into column, Mosby said
“Come on,” and the party set forward upon the appointed
task—to surprise some camp, capture an army train, or ambush
some detached party of Federal cavalry out on a foraging expedition.

Such a life is attractive to the imagination, and the men came
to have a passion for it. But it is a dangerous service. It may
with propriety be regarded as a trial of wits between the opposing
commanders. The great praise of Mosby was, that his
superior skill, activity, and good judgment gave him almost
uninterrupted success, and invariably saved him from capture.
An attack upon Colonel Cole, of the Maryland cavalry, near
Loudon Heights, in the winter of 1863-64, was his only serious
failure; and that appears to have resulted from a disobedience
of his orders. He had here some valuable officers and men
killed. He was several times wounded, but never taken. On
the last occasion, in 1864, he was shot through the window of a
house in Fauquier, but managed to stagger into a darkened
room, tear off his stars, the badges of his rank, and counterfeit
a person mortally wounded. His assailants left him dying, as
they supposed, without discovering his identity; and when they
did discover it and hurried back, he had been removed beyond
reach of peril. After his wounds he always reappeared paler
and thinner, but more active and untiring than ever. They
only seemed to exasperate him, and make him more dangerous
to trains, scouting parties, and detached camps than before.

The great secret of his success was undoubtedly his unbounded
energy and enterprise. General Stuart came finally to repose
unlimited confidence in his resources, and relied implicitly upon
him. The writer recalls an instance of this in June, 1863.
General Stuart was then near Middleburg, watching the United
States army—then about to move toward Pennsylvania—but
could get no accurate information from his scouts. Silent, puzzled,
and doubtful, the General walked up and down, knitting
his brows and reflecting, when the lithe figure of Mosby appeared,
and Stuart uttered an exclamation of relief and

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satisfaction. They were speedily in private consultation, and Mosby
only came out again to mount his quick gray mare and set out,
in a heavy storm, for the Federal camps. On the next day he
returned with information which put the entire cavalry in motion.
He had penetrated General Hooker's camps, ascertained
everything, and safely returned. This had been done in his
gray uniform, with his pistols at his belt—and I believe it was
on this occasion that he gave a characteristic evidence of his
coolness. He had captured a Federal cavalry-man, and they
were riding on together, when suddenly they struck a column of
the enemy's cavalry passing. Mosby drew his oil-cloth around
him, cocked his pistol, and said to his companion, “If you make
any sign or utter a word to have me captured, I will blow your
brains out, and trust to the speed of my horse to escape. Keep
quiet, and we will ride on without troubling anybody.” His
prisoner took the hint, believing doubtless that it was better to
be a prisoner than a dead man; and after riding along carelessly
for some distance, as though he were one of the column, Mosby
gradually edged off, and got away safely with his prisoner.

But the subject beguiles us too far. The hundreds of adventures
in which Mosby bore his part must be left for that extended
record which will some day be made. My chief object in this
brief paper has been to anticipate the sanguinary historians of
the “Lieutenant Colonel—” order; to show that Colonel
Mosby was no black-browed ruffian, but a plain, unassuming
officer of partisans, who gained his widely-extended reputation
by that activity and energy which only men of military ability
possess. This information in regard to the man is intended, as
I have said, for Northern readers of fairness and candour; for
that class who would not willingly do injustice even to an adversary.
In Virginia, Mosby is perfectly well known, and it would
be unnecessary to argue here that the person who enjoyed the
respect and confidence of Lee, Stuart, and Jackson, was worthy
of it. Mosby was regarded by the people of Virginia in his
true light as a man of great courage, decision, and energy, who
embarked like others in a revolution whose principles and
objects he fully approved. In the hard struggle he fought

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bravely, exposed his person without stint, and overcame his
opponents by superior military ability. To stigmatize him as a
ruffian because he was a partisan is to throw obloquy upon the
memory of Marion, Sumter, and Harry Lee, of the old Revolution.
As long as war lasts, surprise of an enemy will continue
to be a part of military tactics; the destruction of his trains,
munitions, stores, and communications, a legitimate object of
endeavour. This Mosby did with great success, and he had no
other object in view. The charge that he fought for plunder is
singularly unjust. The writer of this is able to state of his own
knowledge that Colonel Mosby rarely appropriated anything to
his own use, unless it were arms, a saddle, or a captured horse,
when his own was worn out; and to-day, the man who captured
millions in stores and money is poorer than when he
entered upon the struggle.

This paper, written without the knowledge of Colonel Mosby,
who is merely an acquaintance of the writer, and intended as a
simple delineation of the man, has, in some manner, assumed the
form of an apology for the partisan and his career. He needs
none, and can await without fear that verdict of history which
the late President of the United States justly declared “could
not be avoided.” In the pages which chronicle the great struggle
of 1862, 1863, and 1864, Colonel Mosby will appear in his
true character as the bold partisan, the daring leader of cavalry,
the untiring, never-resting adversary of the Federal forces invading
Virginia. The burly-ruffian view of him will not bear
inspection; and if there are any who cannot erase from their
minds this fanciful figure of a cold, coarse, heartless adventurer,
I would beg them to dwell for a moment upon a picture which
the Richmond correspondent of a Northern journal drew the
other day.

On a summer morning a solitary man was seen beside the
grave of Stuart, in Hollywood Cemetery, near Richmond. The
dew was on the grass, the birds sang overhead, the green hillock
at the man's feet was all that remained of the daring leader of
the Southern cavalry, who, after all his toils, his battles, and the
shocks of desperate encounters, had come here to rest in peace.

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Beside this unmarked grave the solitary mourner remained long,
pondering and remembering. Finally he plucked a wild flower,
dropped it upon the grave, and with tears in his eyes, left the
place.

This lonely mourner at the grave of Stuart was Mosby.

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-- --

DEATH OF MAJOR PELHAM, (OF ALA.,) “THE GALLANT.”—Page 127.
“He was waving his hat aloft, and cheering them on, when a fragment of shell struck him in the head,
mortally wounding him.”
[figure description] Illustration page, which depicts the death of Major Pelham. He is on his horse, with a mass of Confederate soldiers behind him and Union soldiers in the distant background, and is waving his hat in the air. His horse is rearing and Pelham is falling backwards as he has been hit by a shell fragment.[end figure description]

-- --

p521-146

[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]

On the morning of the 17th of March, 1863, Averill's Federal
Cavalry, three thousand in the saddle, crossed the Rappahannock
at Kelly's Ford, and attacked about eight hundred of
General Fitz Lee's command, who faced, without shrinking,
these great odds, and fought them stubbornly at every point
throughout the entire day.

When the sun set on that tranquil evening—sinking slowly
down behind the quiet forest, unstirred by the least breath of
wind—the long and desperate struggle was decided. The enemy
was retiring, “badly hurt,” and General Stuart added in his
dispatch: “We are after him. His dead men and horses strew
the road.”

No harder battle was fought during the entire war. The
Southern forces won the day by hard and desperate fighting, in
charge after charge; but lost in the struggle some of the most
valiant hearts that ever beat. Puller, Harris, and Pelham were
among the number—the “gallant Pelham” of the battle of
Fredericksburg. He was in the performance of his duty as Chief
of Artillery, and was riding towards his General, when a regiment
of cavalry swept by him in a charge. He was waving his
hat aloft, and cheering them on, when a fragment of shell struck
him on the head, mortally wounding him. He lingered until
after midnight on the morning of the 18th, when General
Stuart telegraphed to Mr. Curry, of Alabama:

“The noble, the chivalric, the gallant Pelham is no more.

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He was killed in action yesterday. His remains will be sent to
you to-day. How much he was beloved, appreciated, and admired,
let the tears of agony we have shed, and the gloom of
mourning throughout my command, bear witness. His loss is
irreparable.”

The body of the young officer was sent to Richmond, laid in
state in the Capitol of Virginia, and we are told that “some
tender hand deposited an evergreen wreath, intertwined with
white flowers, upon the case that contained all that was mortal
of the fallen hero.” His family received the soldier's remains;
they were taken to his Southern home; Virginia, the field of
his fame, had surrendered him to Alabama, the land of his birth.

“The Major-General commanding,” wrote Stuart, in a general
order, “approaches with reluctance the painful duty of announcing
to the Division its irreparable loss in the death of Major
John Pelham, commanding the Horse Artillery.

“He fell mortally wounded in the battle of Kellysville,
March 17th, with the battle-cry on his lips, and the light of
victory beaming from his eye.

“To you, his comrades, it is needless to dwell upon what you
have so often witnessed—his prowess in action, already proverbial.
You well know how, though young in years, a mere
stripling in appearance, remarkable for his genuine modesty of
deportment, he yet disclosed on the battle-field the conduct of
a veteran, and displayed in his handsome person the most imperturbable
coolness in danger.

“His eye had glanced over every battle-field of this army,
from the first Manassas to the moment of his death, and he was,
with a single exception, a brilliant actor in all.

“The memory of `THE GALLANT Pelham,' his many virtues,
his noble nature and purity of character, is enshrined as a sacred
legacy in the hearts of all who knew him.

“His record has been bright and spotless; his career brilliant
and successful.

“He fell—the noblest of sacrifices—on the altar of his country,
to whose glorious service he had dedicated his life from the
beginning of the war.”

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Thus passed away a noble, lofty soul; thus ended a career,
brief, it is true, but among the most arduous, glorious, and splendid
of the war. Young, but immortal—a boy in years, but heir
to undying fame—he was called away from the scene of his
triumphs and glory to a brighter world, where neither wars nor
rumours of wars can come, and wounds and pain and suffering
are unknown; where



“Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing
Can touch him further!”

To him who writes these lines, the death of this noble youth
has been inexpressibly saddening. It has cast a shadow on the
very sunlight; and the world seems, somehow, colder and more
dreary since he went away. It was but yesterday almost that
he was in his tent, and I looked into his frank, brave eyes, and
heard his kind, honest voice.* There is the seat he occupied as
we conversed—the bed where he so often slept with me, prolonging
his gay talk deep into the night. There are the books
he read—the papers which he wrote; at this table he once sat,
and here where my own hand rests has rested the hand of the
Dead! Every object thus recalls him, even as he lived and
moved beside me but a few days ago. His very words seem still
echoing in the air, and the dreary camp is full of his presence!

Nor am I the only one whose heart has bled for the young soldier.
All who knew him loved him for his gay, sweet temper,
as they admired him for his unshrinking courage. I have seen
no face over which a sort of shadow did not pass at the announcement,
“Pelham is dead!”

“Pelham is dead!” It is only another mode of saying “honour
is dead! courage is dead! modesty, kindness, courtesy, the inborn
spirit of the true and perfect gentleman, the nerve of the soldier,
the gaiety of the good companion, the kindly heart, and the resolute
soul—all dead, and never more to revisit us in his person!”

These words are not dictated by a blind partiality or mere

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personal regard for the brave youth who has fallen in front of
the foe, in defence of the sacred liberties of the South. Of his
unshrinking nerve and coolness in the hour of peril, the name
of “the gallant Pelham,” given him by General Lee at Fredericksburg,
will bear witness. Of his noble, truthful nature, those
who knew him best will speak.

He had made for himself a celebrated name, and he was only
twenty-four when he died!

A son of the great State of Alabama, and descended from an
old and honourable family there, he had the courage of his race
and clime. He chose arms as his profession, and entered West
Point, where he graduated just as the war commenced; lost no
time in offering his services to the South, and received the
appointment of First-Lieutenant in the Confederate States army.
Proceeding to Harper's Ferry, when General Johnston was in
command there, he was assigned to duty as drill-officer of artillery,
and in the battle of Manassas commanded a battery, which
he fought with that daring courage which afterwards rendered
him so famous. He speedily attracted the attention of the higher
Generals of the army, and General J. E. B. Stuart entrusted him
with the organization of the battalion of Horse Artillery which
he subsequently commanded in nearly every battle of the war
upon Virginia soil. Here I knew him first.

From the moment when he took command of that famous
corps, a new system of artillery fighting seemed to be inaugurated.
The rapidity, the rush, the impetus of the eavalry, were
grafted on its more deliberate brother. Not once, but repeatedly,
has the Horse Artillery of Pelham given chase at full
speed to a flying enemy; and, far in advance of all infantry
support, unlimbered and hurled its thunders on the foe. It was
ever at the point where the line was weakest; and however
headlong the charge of the cavalry, the whirling guns were
beside it, all ready for their part. “Trot, march!” had yielded
to “gallop!” with the battalion; it was rushed into position,
and put in action with a rush; and in and out among the guns
where the bolts fell thickest was the brave young artillerist,
cool and self-possessed, but, as one of his officers said the other

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day, “as gay as a school-boy at a frolic.” He loved his profession
for its own sake; and often spoke to the officers above alluded
to of the “jolly good fights” he would have in the present campaign;
but I anticipate my subject.

Once associated with the command of Stuart, he secured the
warm regard and unlimited contidence of that General, who
employed his services upon every occasion. Thenceforth their
fortunes seemed united, like their hearts; and the young man
became known as one of the most desperate fighters of the whole
army. He was rightly regarded by Jackson and others as possessed
of a very extraordinary genius for artillery; and when
any movement of unusual importance was designed, Pelham was
assigned to the artillery to be employed.

His career was a brief one, but how glorious! How crowded
with great events that are history now! Let us glance at it:

When the Southern forces fell back from Manassas in 1861,
his batteries had their part in covering the movement, and
guarding the fords of the Rappahannock. During the campaign
of the Peninsula, his Blakely was as a sentinel on post near the
enemy; and at the battle of Williamsburg his courage and skill
transformed raw militia into veterans. In the seven day's battles
around Richmond he won fadeless laurels. With one
Napoleon, he engaged three heavy batteries, and fought them
with a pertinacity and unfaltering nerve which made the calm
face of Jackson glow; and the pressure of that heroic hand,
warm and eloquent of unspoken admiration. Soon afterwards,
at the “White House,” he engaged a gunboat, and driving it
away, after a brief but hot encounter, proved how fanciful were
the terrors of these “monsters.”

His greatest achievements were to come, however; and he
hastened to record them on the enduring tablets of history.
From the moment when his artillery advanced from the Rappahannock,
to the time when it returned thither, to the day of
Fredericksburg, the path of the young leader was deluged with
the blood of battle. At Manassas he rushed his guns into the
very columns of the enemy almost; fighting their sharpshooters
with canister, amid a hurricane of balls. At Sharpsburg he had

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command of nearly all the artillery on our left, and directed it
with the hand of a master. When the army crossed back into
Virginia, he was posted at Shepherdstown, and guarded the ford
with an obstinate valour, which spoke in the regular and unceasing
reverberation of his deep-mouthed Napoleons, as they roared
on, hour after hour, driving back the enemy.

Of the days which succeeded that exciting period, many persons
will long hold the memory. It was in an honest old country-house,
whither the tide of war bore him for a time, that the
noble nature of the young soldier shone forth in all its charms.
There, in the old hall on the banks of the Opequon, surrounded
by warm hearts who reminded him perhaps of his own beloved
ones in far Alabama; there, in the tranquil days of autumn, in
that beautiful country, he seemed to pass some of his happiest
hours. All were charmed with his kind temper and his sunny
disposition; with his refinement, his courtesy, his high breeding,
and simplicity. Modest to a fault almost—blushing like a girl
at times, and wholly unassuming in his entire deportment—he
became a favourite with all around him, and secured that regard
of good men and women which is the proof of high traits and
fine instincts in its possessor. In the beautiful autumn forests,
by the stream with its great sycamores, and under the tall oaks
of the lawn, he thus wandered for a time—an exile from his own
land of Alabama, but loved, admired, and cherished by warm
hearts in this. When he left the haunts of “The Bower,” I
think he regretted it. But work called him.

The fiat had gone forth from Washington that another “On
to Richmond” should be attempted; and where the vultures of
war hovered, there was the post of duty for the Horse Artillery.
The cavalry crossed the Blue Ridge, and met the advancing
column at Aldie—and Pelham was again in his element.
Thenceforward, until the banks of the Rappahannock were
reached by the cavalry, the batteries of the Horse Artillery disputed
every step of ground. The direction of the artillery was
left, with unhesitating confidence, by Stuart to the young officer;
and those who witnessed, during that arduous movement, the
masterly handling of his guns, can tell how this confidence was

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justified. It was the eye of the great soldier, the hand of the
born artillerist, which was evident in his work during those days
of struggle. He fell back neither too soon nor too late, and
only limbered up his guns to unlimber again in the first position
which he reached. Thus fighting every inch of the way
from Aldie, round by Paris, and Markham's, he reached the
Rappahannock, and posted his artillery at the fords, where he
stood and bade the enemy defiance. That page in the history
of the war is scarcely known; but those who were present know
the obstinacy of the contests, and the nerve and skill which
were displayed by the young officer.

That may be unknown, but the work done by Pelham on the
great day of Fredericksburg is a part of history now. All know
how stubbornly he stood on that day—what laurels encircled
his young brow when night at last came: This was the climax
of his fame—the event with which his name will be inseparably
connected. With one Napoleon gun, he opened the battle on
the right, and instantly drew upon himself the fire, at close
range, of three or four batteries in front, and a heavy enfilading
fire from thirty-pound Parrots across the river. But this moved
him little. That Napoleon gun was the same which he had
used at the battle of Cold Harbour—it was taken from the enemy
at Seven Pines—and, in the hands of the young officer, it had
won a fame which must not be tarnished by defeat! Its grim
voice must roar, however great the odds; its reverberating defiance
must roll over the plain, until the bronze war-dog was
silenced. So it roared on steadily with Pelham beside it, blowing
up caissons, and continuing to tear the enemy's ranks. General
Lee was watching it from the hill above, and exclaimed,
with eyes filled with admiration, “It is glorious to see such courage
in one so young!” It was glorious indeed to see that one
gun, placed in an important position, hold its ground with a
firmness so unflinching. Not until his last round of ammunition
was shot away did Pelham retire; and then only after a
peremptory order sent to him. He afterwards took command of
the entire artillery on the right, and fought it until night with a
skill and courage which were admirable. He advanced his guns

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steadily, and at nightfall was thundering on the flank of the
retreating enemy, who no longer replied. No answering roar
came back from those batteries he had fought with his Napoleon
so long; he had triumphed. That triumph was complete,
and placed for ever upon record when the great Commander-in-Chief,
whom he loved and admired so ardently, gave him the
name in his report of “the gallant Pelham.”

Supreme tribute to his courage—immortalizing him in history!
To be the sole name mentioned beneath the rank of Major-General
in all that host of heroes—and mentioned as “the gallant Pelham!”

Thenceforward there was little for him to desire. He had
never cared for rank, only longed for glory; and now his name
was deathless. It is true that he sometimes said, with modest
and noble pride, that he thought it somewhat hard to be considered
too young for promotion, when they gave him great commands—
as at Sharpsburg and Fredericksburg—and called on
him when the hardest work was to be done. But he never
desired a mere title he had not won, and did his soldier's duty
thoroughly, trusting to time. So noble and important, however,
had been his recent services, that promotion was a matter of
course. The President said, “I do not need to see any papers
about Major Pelham,” and had appointed him a Lieutenant-Colonel;
and it only awaited the formal confirmation of the
Senate, when he fell on the Rappahannock. His fall was a public
calamity to the nation, but none to him. It was fit that such
a spirit should lay down his great work before the hard life of
the world had dimmed the polish of the good knight's spotless
shield. He wanted no promotion at the hands of men. He had
won, if not worn, the highest honours of the great soldier; and
having finished his task, the gentle spirit took its flight, promoted
by the tender hand of Death to other honours in a
brighter world.

eaf521n3

* Written at “Camp No.—camp,” in the spring of 1863.

In this hasty tribute to one whom I knew well, and loved
much, it is hard to avoid the appearance of exaggeration. The
character of this young soldier was so eminently noble—his soul

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so brave, so true, so free from any taint of what was mean or
sordid or little—that the sober words of truth may be doubted
by some, who will only regard them as that tender and pious
flattery which friendship accords to the dead.

This sentiment will be experienced only by strangers, however.
Those who knew him will recognise the true portrait.
His modesty, his gentleness—his bearing almost childlike in its
simplicity—made his society charming. This modesty of deportment
was observed by every one, and strangers often referred to
the singular phenomenon in a youth bred in the self-sufficient
atmosphere of West Point, and whose name was already so
famous. He never spoke of himself; you might live with him
for a month, and never know that he had been in a single action.
He never seemed to think that he deserved any applause for his
splendid courage, and was silent upon all subjects connected
with his own actions. In his purse was found folded away,
after his death, a slip from a United States officer, once his
friend, which contained the words, “After long silence, I write.
God bless you, dear Pelham; I am proud of your success.”
But he had never even alluded to the paper. Distinguished
unmistakably by the affection and admiration of his immediate
General—rendered famous by the praise of the Commander-in-Chief
at Fredericksburg—he never exhibited the least trait of
self-love, remaining still what he had always been, as modest,
unassuming, and simple as a child.

This and other winning traits come to my mind as I write,
and I could speak at length of all those charming endowments
which endeared him to every one around him. I could dwell on
his nice sense of honour—his devotion to his family—on that
prisca fides in his feeling and opinions which made him a great,
true type of the Southern gentleman, attracting the attention and
respect of the most eminent personages of his time. But with
the recollection of those eminent social characteristics comes the
memory always of his long, hard work in the service. I have
often seen him engaged in that work, which gave him his great
fame; and this phase of the young officer's character obtrudes
itself, rounding and completing the outline.

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With what obstinate and unyielding courage he fought!—
with a daring how splendid, how rich in suggestion of the antique
days! He entered upon a battle with the coolness and resolution
of a great leader trained in a thousand combats, and fought
his guns with the fury and élan of Murat at the head of his
horsemen. No trait of the ground, no movement of the enemy,
ever escaped his eagle eye. With an inborn genius for war
which West Point had merely developed, and directed in its
proper channels, he had that rapid comprehension—intuition
almost—which counts for so much in a leader. Where the contest
was hottest and the pressure heaviest, there was Pelham with
his guns; and the broken lines of infantry, or cavalry giving
ground before irresistible numbers, heard their deep voices roaring
and saw the ranks of the enemy scattered. Often he waited for
no order, took the whole responsibility, and opened his batteries
where he saw that they were most needed by the emergencies of
the moment. But what he did was always the very best that
could be done. He struck at the right moment, and his arm
was heavy. To the cavalry, the roar of Pelham's Napoleons was
a welcome sound. When the deep-mouthed thunder of those
guns was heard, the faintest took heart, and the contest assumed
a new phase to all—for that sound had proved on many a field
the harbinger of victory.*

Beside those guns was the chosen post of the young artillerist.
The gaudium certaminis seemed to fill his being at such moments;
and, however numerous the batteries which he threw into action,
he never remained behind “in command of the whole field.”
He told me that he considered this his duty, and I know that he
never shrank—as he might have done—from performing it.

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He was ever by the guns which were under the hottest fire;
and, when the enemy shifted their fire to other portions of the
field, he proceeded thither, riding at full speed, and directed the
fresh batteries in person. His men will remember how cheering
and inspiring was his presence with them—how his coolness
steadied them in the most exciting moments—and his brave,
cheerful voice was the herald of success. “He was the bravest
human being I ever saw in my life,” said one of his officers
whom I conversed with recently; and all who have seen him
under fire will bear similar testimony. His coolness had something
heroic in it. It never deserted him, or was affected by
those chances of battle which excite the bravest. He saw guns
shattered and dismounted, or men torn to pieces, without exhibiting
any signs of emotion. His nature seemed strung and
every muscle braced to a pitch which made him rock; and the
ghastliest spectacle of blood and death left his soul unmoved—
his stern will unbent.

That unbending will had been tested often, and never had
failed him yet. At Manassas, Williamsburg, Cold Harbour,
Groveton, Oxhill, Sharpsburg, Shepherdstown, Kearneysville,
Aldie, Union, Upperville, Markham, Barbee's, Hazel River, and
Fredericksburg—at these and many other places he fought his
horse artillery, and handled it with heroic coolness. One day
when I led him to speak of his career, he counted up something
like a hundred actions which he had been in—and in every one
he had borne a prominent part. Talk with the associates of the
young leader in those hard-fought battles, and they will tell you
a hundred instances of his dauntless courage. At Manassas he
took position in a place so dangerous that an officer, who had
followed him up to that moment, rode away with the declaration
that “if Pelham was fool enough to stay there, he was not.
But General Jackson thanked him, as he thanked him at Cold
Harbour, when the brave young soldier came back covered with
dust from fighting his Napoleon—the light of victory in his
eyes. At Markham, while he was fighting the enemy in front,
they made a circuit and charged him in the rear; but he turned
his guns about, and fought them as before, with his “Napoleon

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detachment” singing the loud, triumphant Marseillaise, as that
same Napoleon gun, captured at Seven Pines, and used at Fredericksburg,
drove them back. All that whole great movement
was a marvel of hard fighting, however, and Pelham was the
hero of the stout, close struggle. Any other chief of artillery
might have sent his men in at Fredericksburg and elsewhere,
leaving the direction of the guns to such officers as the brave
Captain Henry; but this did not suit the young chieftain. He
must go himself with the one gun sent forward, and beside that
piece he remained until it was ordered back—directing his men
to lie down, but sitting his own horse, and intent solely upon
the movements and designs of the enemy, wholly careless of the
“fire of hell” hurled against him. It was glorious, indeed, as
General Lee declared, to see such heroism in the boyish artillerist;
and well might General Jackson speak of him in terms
of “exaggerated compliment,” and ask General Stuart “if he
had another Pelham, to give him to him.” On that great day,
the young son of Alabama covered himself with glory—but no
one who knew him felt any surprise at it. Those who had seen
him at work upon other fields knew the dauntless resolution of
his brave young soul—the tough and stern fibre of his courage.
That hard fibre could bear any strain upon it and remain unmoved.

In all those hard combats, no ball or shell ever struck him.
The glance of the blue eyes seemed to conquer Danger, and
render Death powerless. He seemed to bear a charmed life, and
to pass amid showers of bullets without peril or fear of the result.
It was not from the enemy's artillery alone that he ran the
greatest danger in battle. He was never content to remain at
his guns if they were silent. His mind was full of the contest,
pondering its chances, as though he had command of the whole
army himself; he never rested in his exertions to penetrate the
designs of the enemy. Upon such occasions he was the mark at
which the sharpshooters directed their most dangerous fire; but
they never struek him. The balls passed to the right or left, or
overhead—his hour had not yet come.

It came at last in that hard fight upon the Rappahannock, and

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the famous youth lies low at last. He fell “with the battle-cry
on his lips, and the light of victory beaming from his eye.” In
the words of the general order which his beloved commander
issued, “His record had been bright and spotless; his career
brilliant and successful; he fell the noblest of sacrifices on the
altar of his country.”

The theme grows beneath the pen which at first attempted a
slight sketch only, and my paper is growing too long. A few
words more will complete the outline of this eminent young
soldier.

The name of Pelham will remain connected for ever with great
events; but it will live perennial, too, in many hearts who mourn
bitterly his untimely end. All who knew him loved him; I
believe that no human being disliked him. His character was
so frank, and open, and beautiful—his bearing so modest and
unassuming—that he conciliated all hearts, and made every one
who met him his friend. His passions were strong; and when he
was aroused fire darted from the flint, but this was seldom.
During all my acquaintance with him—and that acquaintance
dated back to the autumn of 1861—I never had a word addressed
to me that was unfriendly, and never saw him angry but twice.
“Poor boy!” said Stuart one day, “he was angry with me once,
and the speaker had known him longer than I had. He had rare
self-control, and I think that this sprang in a great measure from
a religious sense of duty. He would sit and read his Bible with
close attention; and, though he never made a profession of his
religious convictions, it is certain that these convictions shaped his
conduct. The thought of death never seemed to cross his mind,
however; and he once told me that he had never felt as if he was
destined to be killed in the war. Alas! the brief proverb is the
comment: “Man proposes, God disposes.”

Thus, modest, brave, loving, and beloved—the famous soldier,
the charming companion—he passed away from the friends who
cherished him, leaving a void which none other can fill. Alabama
lent him to Virginia for a time; but, alas! the pale face smiles
no more as he returns to her. As many mourn his early death
here, where his glory was won, as in the southern land from which

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he came. To these—the wide circle who loved him for his great
qualities, and his kind, good heart—his loss is irreparable, as it is
to the whole South. The “breed of noble minds” like his is not
numerous, and when such forms disappear the gap is hard to fill—
the struggle more arduous than before. But the memory of
this great young soldier still remains with us, his name is
immortal in history as in many hearts which throbbed at his
death!

Poor colourless phrases!—faded flowers I try to strew on the
grave of this noble soul! But the loss is too recent, and the
wound has not yet healed. The heart still bleeds as the pen traces
the dull words on the page.



“Mourn for him! Let him be regarded
As the most noble corse that ever herald
Did follow to his urn!”

Strange words!—it may be said—for a boy little more than
twenty! Exaggerated estimate of his loss!

No, the words are not strange; the loss is not exaggerated—
for the name of this youth was John Pelham

eaf521n4

* The rumour has obtained a wide circulation that Major Pelham lost one or
more of his guns when the cavalry fell back from the mountains. The report is
entirely without foundation. He never lost a gun there or anywhere else. Though
he fought his pieces with such obstinacy that the enemy more than once charged
within ten yards of the muzzles of the guns, he always drove them back, and
brought his artillery off safely. He asked my friendly offices in making public
this statement. I neglected it, but now put the facts on record, in justice to his
memory.

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In the old “Confederate Army of the Potomac,” and then in
the “Army of Northern Virginia,” there was a man so notable
for daring, skill, and efficiency as a partisan, that all who valued
those great qualities honoured him as their chiefest exemplar.
He was known among the soldiers as “Farley, the Scout,” but
that term did not express him fully. He was not only a scout,
but a partisan leader; an officer of excellent judgment and magnificent
dash; a soldier born, who took to the work with all the
skill and readiness of one who engages in that occupation for
which, by Providence, he is especially designed.

He served from the beginning of the war to the hard battle
of Fleetwood, in Culpeper, fought on the 9th of June, 1863.
There he fell, his leg shattered by a fragment of shell, and the
brave true soul went to rejoin its Maker.

One of the chiefest spites of fate is that oblivion which submerges
the greatest names and events. The design of this brief
paper is to put upon record some particulars of the career of a
brave soldier—so that, in that “aftertime” which sums up the
work and glory of the men of this epoch, his name shall not be
lost to memory.

Farley was born at Laurens village, South Carolina, on the
19th of December, 1835. He was descended, in a direct line,
from the “Douglas” of Scotland, and his father, who was born
on the Roanoke river, in Charlotte county, Virginia, was one of
the most accomplished gentlemen of his time. He emigrated to

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South Carolina at the age of twenty-one, married, and commenced
there the practice of law. To the son, the issue of this
marriage, he gave the name of William Downs Farley, after his
father-in-law, Colonel William F. Downs, a distinguished lawyer,
member of the Legislature, and an officer of the war of 1812.
The father of this Colonel Downs was Major Jonathan Downs,
a patriot of '76; his mother, a daughter of Captain Louis Saxon,
also distinguished in our first great struggle; thus our young
partisan of 1863 had fighting blood in his veins, and, in plunging
into the contest, only followed the traditions of his race.

From earliest childhood he betrayed the instincts of the man
of genius. Those who recollect him then, declare that his
nature seemed composed of two mingled elements—the one
gentle and reflective, the other ardent and enthusiastic. Passionately
fond of Shakspeare and the elder poets, he loved to wander
away into the woods, and, stretched beneath some great oak,
pass hour after hour in dreamy musing; but if, at such times,
he heard the cry of the hounds and the shouts of his companions,
his dreams were dissipated, and throwing aside his volume,
he would join in the chase with headlong ardour.

At the age of seventeen, he made, in company with a friend,
the tour of the Northern States, and then was sent to the University
of Virginia, where his education was completed. The
summer vacation gave him an opportunity of making a pedestrian
excursion through Virginia; and thus, having enlarged
his mind by study and travel through the North and a portion
of the South, he returned to South Carolina. Here he occupied
himself in rendering assistance to his father, who had become
an invalid, and, we believe, commenced the practice of the law.
His love of roving, however, did not desert him, and his father's
business required repeated journeys into the interior of the
State. The scenery of the mountains proved a deep and lasting
source of joy to him, and, standing on the summits of the great
ranges, he has been seen to remain in such rapt contemplation
of the landscape that he could scarcely be aroused and brought
back to the real world. These expeditions undoubtedly fostered
in the youthful South Carolinian that ardent love of everything

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connected with his native State which, with his craving for wild
adventure, constituted the controlling elements of his being.

“He had now attained,” a friend writes, “the pride and maturity
of manhood. There were few handsomer or more prepossessing
men. As a young man said, after the battle of Culpeper,
in speaking of the loss of Farley and Hampton, “two of the
handsomest men in our State have fallen.” His figure was of
medium height, elegantly formed, graceful, well knit, and, from
habitual exercise in the gymnasium, possessing a remarkable
degree of strength and activity. His hair was dark brown; his
eyebrows and lashes were so dark, and so shaded the dark grey
eyes beneath as to give them the appearance of blackness. His
manner was generally quiet, polished, and elegant; but let him
be aroused by some topic which awoke his enthusiasm (secession
and the Yankees, for instance), and he suddenly stood transformed
before you; and in the flashing eye and changing cheek
you beheld the dashing “Hero of the Potomac!”

“His moral character,” says the same authority, “was pure
and noble—`Sans peur et sans reproche.' It is a well known fact
among his friends and associates that ardent spirits of any kind
had never passed his lips until the first battle of Manassas, when,
being sick with measles, he fought until almost fainting, and
accepted a draught from the canteen of a friend. This was the
first and last drink he ever took.

“His father, whose last hours he watched with untiring care
and attention, died just before the opening of the war. Captain
Farley had, from an early age, taken great interest in the political
affairs of the country; he was a warm advocate of State
Rights, and now entered into the spirit of secession with eagerness
and enthusiasm. He was very instrumental in bringing
about a unanimity of opinion on this subject in his own district.

“He made frequent visits to Charleston, with the hope of
being in the scene of action should an attack be made on the
city; and was greatly chagrined that the battle of Sumter was
fought during a short absence, and he only reached the city on
the day following. He was the first man in his district to fly
to the defence of Virginia, whose sacred soil he loved with a

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devotion only inferior to that which he bore his own State.
He joined Gregg's regiment, in which he served three months,
and on the disbanding of which he became an independent
fighter.”

From this time commences that career of personal adventure
and romantic exploits which made him so famous. Shouldering
his rifle—now riding, then on foot—he proceeded to the far
outposts nearest to the enemy, and was indefatigable in penetrating
their lines, harassing detached parties, and gaining information
for Generals Bonham and Beauregard. Falling back with
the army from Fairfax, he fought—though so sick that he could
scarcely stand—in the first battle of Manassas, and then entered
permanently upon the life of the scout, speedily attracting to
himself the unconcealed admiration of the whole army. To
note the outlines even of his performances at that time, would
require thrice the space we have at our disposal. He seemed
omnipresent on every portion of the lines; and if any daring
deed was undertaken—any expedition which was to puzzle,
harass, or surprise the enemy—Farley was sure to be there.
With three men he took and held Upton's Hill, directly in face
of the enemy; on numberless occasions he surprised the enemy's
pickets; and with three others, waylaid and attacked a
column of several hundred cavalry led by Colonel (afterwards
General) Bayard, whose horse he killed, slightly wounding the
rider. This audacious attack was made some ten or fifteen miles
beyond the Southern lines, and nothing but a love of the most
desperate adventure could have led to it. Farley ambushed the
enemy, concealing his little band of three men in some pines;
and although they might easily have remained perdus until the
column passed, and so escaped, Farley determined to attack, and
did attack—firing first upon Bayard, and nearly stampeding his
whole regiment. After a desperate encounter he and his little
party were all captured or killed, and Farley was taken to the
Old Capitol in Washington, where he remained some time in
captivity. General Bayard mentioned this affair afterwards in
an interview with General Stuart, and spoke in warm terms of
the courage which led Farley to undertake so desperate an

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adventure. Released from prison, Farley hastened back to his
old “stamping ground” around Centreville, reaching that place
in the winter of 1861. He speedily received the most flattering
proposals from some eminent officers who were going to the
South-west; but chancing to meet General Stuart, that officer
took violent possession of him, and thenceforth kept him near
his person as volunteer aide-de-camp. With this arrangement
Farley soon became greatly pleased. He had already seen Stuart
at work, and that love of adventure and contempt of danger—
the coolness, self-possession, and mastery of the situation, however
perilous—which characterized both, proved a lasting bond
of union between them.

Thenceforth, Farley was satisfied. His position was one
which suited his peculiar views and habits admirably. Untrammelled
by special duties—never tied down to the routine of command,
or the commonplace round of camp duty—free as the
wind to go or come whenever and wheresoever he pleased, all
the instincts of his peculiar organization had “ample room and
verge enough” for thier development; and his splendid native
traits had the fullest swing and opportunity of display. It was
in vain that General Stuart, estimating at their full value his
capacity for command, repeatedly offered him position. He did
not want any commission, he said; his place suited him perfectly,
and he believed he could do more service to the cause as scout
and partisan than as a regular line-officer. He had not entered
the army, he often declared to me, for place or position; promotion
was not his object; to do as much injury as possible to the
enemy was his sole, controlling sentiment, and he was satisfied
to be where he was.

His devotion to the cause was indeed profound and almost
passionate. He never rested in his exertions, and seemed to feel
as if the success of the struggle depended entirely on his own
exertions. A friend once said to him: “If, as in ancient Roman
days, an immense gulf should miraculously open, and an oracle
should declare that the hobour and peace of the country could

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only be maintained by one of her youths throwing himself into
it, do you believe you could do it?” He looked serious, and
answered earnestly and with emphasis, “I believe I could.”

Thus permanently attached as volunteer aide to General Stuart,
Farley thereafter took part in all the movements of the cavalry.
He was with them in that hot falling back from Centreville, in
March, 1862; in the combats of the Peninsula, where, at Williamsburg,
he led a regiment of infantry in the assault; in the
battles of Cold Harbour and Malvern Hill, at the second Manassas,
Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg, and the scores of minor
engagements which marked almost every day upon the outposts.
He missed the battle of Chancellorsville, greatly to his regret,
having gone home, after an absence of two years, to witness the
bombardment of Charleston and see his family.

It was soon after his return in May that the fatal moment
came which deprived the service of this eminent partisan. At
the desperately contested battle of Fleetwood, in Culpeper county,
on the 9th of June, 1863, he was sent by General Stuart to carry
a message to Colonel Butler, of the 2d South Carolina cavalry.
He had just delivered his message, and was sitting upon his
horse by the Colonel, when a shell, which also wounded Butler,
struck him upon the right knee and tore his leg in two at the
joint. He fell from the saddle and was borne to an ambulance,
where surgical assistance was promptly rendered. His wound
was, however, mortal, and all saw that he was dying.

At his own request the torn and bleeding member, with the
cavalry boot still on, was put in the ambulance, and he was
borne from the field. His strength slowly declined, but his
consciousness remained. Meeting one whom he knew, he called
him by name, and murmured, “I am almost gone.” He lingered
but a few hours, and at twilight of that day the writer of these
lines looked on him in his shroud—the pale, cold features calm
and tranquil in their final sleep.

He was clad in his new uniform coat, and looked every inch
a soldier taking his last rest. He had delivered this coat to a
lady of Culpeper, and said, “If anything befalls me, wrap me in
this and send me to my mother.”

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Such was the end of the famous partisan. His death left a
void which it seemed impossible to fill. His extraordinary
career had become fully known, and a writer some months before
his death gave utterance to the sentiment of every one when
he wrote: “The story—the plain, unvarnished story—of his
career since the war began is like a tale of old romance. Such
abnegation of self! Office and money both spurned, because
they seemed to stand in the way of his duty. What thrilling
incidents! What strength and courage! and what wonderful
escapes! No wonder, as he rides by, we so often hear it exclaimed,
`There goes the famous scout, Farley! The army has
no braver man, no purer patriot!”'

We put on record here the following passage from the letter
of a lady in Culpeper to his mother, giving, as it does, an outline
of the man, and bearing testimony in its simple words,
warm from a woman's heart, to the affection which was felt for him:

My Dear Madam—I want you to know how we in Virginia
admired, appreciated, and loved your son. Had he been her own,
Virginia could not have loved him more; certainly she could
not owe him more—so long and so bravely had he fought upon
her soil. He was particularly well known in this unfortunate
part of the State, which has been, sometimes for months, overrun
by our foes. Many families will miss his coming, so daring was
he, and so much depended on by General Stuart. He scouted a
great deal alone in the enemy's lines, and was often the bearer
of letters and messages from loved oncs long unheard from.
Often, when we have been cut off from all communication from
our own people, he has been the first to come as the enemy were
leaving, often galloping up when they were searcely out of
sight—always inspiring us with fresh hope and courage, his
cheerful presence itself seeming to us a prophecy of good.

“On Tuesday night, just one week before the battle in which
he fell, he came here, about one o'clock at night. We were surprised
and alarmed to see him, as a large party of the enemy
had passed our very doors only a few hours before. When my
aunt opened the door she found him sitting on the steps, his

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head resting on his hands, as if tired and sleepy. We asked
him if he did not know the Yankees were near. `Oh, yes,' he
replied; `they have been chasing me, and compelled me to
lengthen my ride considerably.' He came in, but said, `I cannot
rest with you long, as I must be riding all night.” We gave
him some bread, honey and milk, which we knew he loved. He
said he had been fasting since morning. `Ah,' said he, `this is
just what I want.' He buckled on his pistols again before sitting
down, and said laughingly to me, `Lock the doors and listen
well, for I'll never surrender.' We stood in the porch when he
left, and watched him walk off briskly (he had come on foot,
having left his horse in the woods). We hated to see him go
out in the dark and rainy night time; but he went cheerfully, so
willing was he to encounter danger, to endure hardships, `to
spend and be spent' in his country's service.”

To “spend and be spent” in the cause of the South was truly
this brave spirit's chief delight. These are not idle words, but
the truth, in relation to him. The writer of this page was long
and intimately associated with him; and so far from presenting
an exaggerated picture of him, the incidents and extracts above
given do him only partial justice. I never saw a braver man,
nor one more modest. He had a peculiar refinement of feeling
and bearing which stamped him a gentleman to the utmost fibre
of his being. This delicacy of temperament was most notable;
and it would be difficult to describe the remarkable union of the
most daring courage and the sweetest simplicity of demeanour in
the young partisan. Greater simplicity and modesty were never
seen in human bearing; and so endearing were these traits of
his character, that ladies and children—those infalliable critics—
were uniformly charmed with him. One of the latter wrote:

“His death has been a great sorrow to us. He was with us
frequently the week before the battle, and won our entire hearts
by his many noble qualities, and his superiority to all around
him. He talked much about his family; he loved them with
entire devotion. He read to us some of your poems, and repeated
one of his own. I close my eyes, and memory brings

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back to me the thrilling tones of that dear voice, which, though
heard no more on earth, has added to the melody of heaven.”

His manner was the perfection of good-breeding, and you saw
that the famous partisan, whose exploits were the theme of every
tongue, had not been raised, like others of his class, amid rude
associates and scenes, but with gently nurtured women, and surrounded
by the sweet amenities of home. His voice was a
peculiar one—very low and distinct in its tones; and these subdued
inflections often produced upon the listener the impression
that it was a habit acquired in scouting, when to speak above a
murmur is dangerous. The low, clear words were habitually
accompanied by a bright smile, and the young man was a favourite
with all—so cordial was his bearing, so unassuming his whole
demeanour. His personal appearance has already been described,
but it may interest some of his friends in the far South to know
how he appeared when “at work.” He dressed uniformly in a
plain suit of gray, wearing a jacket, and over this a dark blue
overcoat, with a belt, holding his pistol, tightly drawn around
his waist. In his hat he wore the black cavalry feather; and his
boots were of that handsome pattern which is worn by Federal
officers, with patent-leather tops and ornamental thread-work.
None of his equipments cost him or the Confederate States a
single dollar. They were all captured—either from sutlers'
wagons or the enemies he had slain with his own hand. I never
knew him to purchase any portion of his own or his horse's
accoutrements—saddle, bridle, halter, sabre, pistols, belt, carbine,
spurs, were all captured from the enemy. His horses were in
the same category, and he rarely kept the same riding-horse
long. They were with great regularity shot under him; and he
mounted the first he found running riderless, or from which his
pistol hurled one of the enemy.

I have spoken of his modest, almost shy demeanour. All
this disappeared in action. His coolness remained unaffected,
but he evidently felt himself in his proper element, and entitled

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to direct others. At such moments his suggestions were boldly
made, and not seldom resulted in the rout of the enemy. The
cavalry once in motion, the quiet, modest gentleman was metamorphosed
into the fiery partisan. He would lead a charge
with the reckless daring of Murat, and cheer on the men, with
contagious ardour, amid the most furious storm of balls.

His disregard of personal exposure was supreme, and the idea
that he was surrounded by peril never occurred to him. He
has repeatedly told the present writer, with that simplicity and
sincerity which produce conviction, that in action he was wholly
unconscious of the balls and shells flying and bursting around
him—that his interest in the general result was so strong as to
cause him to lose sight of them. Those who knew him did not
venture to doubt the assertion.

He delighted in the wild charge, the clash of meeting squadrons,
and the roar of artillery. All these martial sights and
sounds ministered to the passionate ardour of that temperament
which made him most at home where balls were whistling,
and the air oppressive with the odour of battle. But, I think,
he even preferred the life of the scout—the long and noiseless
hunt for his foe—the exercise of those faculties, by
means of which an enemy is surprised and destroyed—the single
combat with sabre and pistol, often far off in the silence of
the woods, where a dead body half concealed amid the grass is
all that remains to tell the tale of some hand-to-hand encounter.
The number of such contests through which Farley had passed
would seem incredible to those who did not know him, and thus
comprehend how the naked truth of his career beggared romance.
He rarely spoke of these affairs, and never, unless to certain
persons, and under pecnliar circumstances. He had a great
horror of appearing to boast of his own exploits, and so greatly
feared securing the reputation of colouring his adventures that he
seldom alluded to them, even. Fortunately for his memory,
many persons witnessed his most desperate encounters, and still
live to testify to the reckless daring of the young partisan.
With these his eventful career will long remain the subject of
fireside tales; and in the coming days of peace, when years

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have silvered the hair of his contemporaries, old men will tell
their grand-children of his strange adventures and those noble
traits which made his name so famous.

To the world at large, he will always thus appear—as the
daring partisan and adventurous scout—as one who risked his
life in a hundred hot encounters, and in all those bloody scenes
never quailed or shrank before a foe, however powerful or dangerous.
But to those who lived with him—heard his low,
friendly voice, and saw every day his bright kindly smile—he
appears in a different character. To such the loss we have sustained
is deeper—it seems irreparable. It was the good fortune
of the writer of these lines to thus see the brave young man—
to be beside him in the field; and, at home, to share his confidence
and friendship. Riding through the summer forests, or
wandering on across the fields of broom-straw, near Fredericksburg—
better still, beside the good log-fire of winter—we talked
of a thousand things, and I saw what a wealth of kindness, chivelry,
and honour he possessed—how beautifully the elements
were mixed in his character. Brave and true—simple and
kind—he passed away; and among those eminent natures
which the writer encountered in the late struggle, few are remembered
with such admiration and affection as this noble son
of Carolina.

The best conclusion of this brief and inadequate sketch will
be the meution made of the brave partisan in General Stuart's
report of the battle of Fleetwood. It is as follows:

“Captain W. D. Farley, of South Carolina, a volunteer aide
on my staff, was mortally wounded by the same shell which
wounded Colonel Butler, and displayed even in death, the same
loftiness of bering and fortitude which characterized him
through life. He had served, without emolument, long, faithfully,
and always with distinction. No nobler champion has
fallen. May his spirit abide with us.”

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I never knew a braver or lovelier spirit than Hardeman Stuart's.
When the wave of war rolled over his young head and swept
him away, one of the truest gentlemen of the South disappeared.

The old Greek dogma that the favourites of the gods die
early, had in him another illustration. His figure moved before
the eyes of those who loved him for a moment only; his brave
gay voice was heard; his bright smile shone—then he flitted
from the great arena like some youthful actor, who has played
his allotted part, and is seen no more.

It was not necessary to know him long to love him. He was
with his Virginia comrades for a brief space only, but he soon
won every heart. His kindness, his courage, his high-bred
courtesy and delightful gaiety, made him the most charming of
companions. Every one loved him. Indeed, to know him was
to love him; and since his death even strangers have spoken of
him in terms of the warmest affection, so deeply had he impressed
all who saw him.

He was scarce twenty-one when he died, and in the flush of
youth and joy and hope. He was a native of the great State of
Mississippi, where hearts are warm and tempers impulsive. The
bright sun of the farthest South seemed to have fired his blood;
and on the battle-field he fought with the gallantry and nerve, the

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vigour and Elan of one of Napoleon's young heroes of the grand
armée.

His laughing face looked out on the world with an exquisite
frankness; the lips were mobile, joyous, and expressive; the
large, honest eyes met your own with smiles in their blue
depths, which spoke the real character of the youth. I was first
attracted toward the youthful stranger by the dash and nerve of
his behaviour on the field. It was in the battle of Cold Harbour,
where he served as a volunteer upon the staff of General
Stuart. He was the model of an aide-de-camp that day, and was
specially mentioned in the general's official report for the valuable
services which he rendered. I saw him frequently on this
occasion, and was struck with his great gallantry. Nothing
could exceed the gay ardour of his bearing, the joyous abandon
with which he threw himself into the contest, his ardent and
complete performance of all duties assigned to him. He courted
danger with a boyish gaiety which shone in his dancing eyes
and on his smiling lips, and seemed to covet opportunities of
exposing himself to the heaviest fire, in the thickest portion of
the fight. No bullet touched him, however; the shot and shell,
bursting and plunging everywhere, seemed determined to avoid
him and do him no harm. He came out of the battle gay, laughing,
and unharmed as he had entered it. At the “White House,”
afterward, he went with Pelham in that boyish frolic, the chase
of the gunboats, and then we rode back “all a summer's day”
to the banks of the Chickahominy, conversing. The delightful
gaiety of the boy made the long, hot miles of sandy highway
slip away unseen; and here I first obtained an insight into the
character of the noble young Mississippian, before a stranger,
but to be to me from that moment a valued friend.

His gallantry during the battle had attracted attention, and he
now secured, through his cousin, General Stuart, the commission
of captain in the signal corps. He performed the duties of his
rank with alacrity, and I had frequent opportunities of seeing
and conversing with him. As I have said, to know him was to
love him. There was so much candour and sincerity in his character,
such a light-hearted gaiety and sweetness of temper, that he

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became a favourite even with those who saw with difficulty any
merit in their brother men, and repelled all sentiments of liking
for their fellow-creatures. Even the surly melted, and grew
smiling as his cheerful voice saluted them, and I think the sourest
of curmudgeons would have doue him a favour without being
solieited. His voice had a special charm in its tones. It was what
the French call caressante. In the accent and intonation of every
word which he uttered it was impossible not to discern the goodness
of his heart. Distress had never yet laid its heavy hand upon
him, and he seemed as free from all knowledge or suspicion of
human bitterness or meanness. He looked into the face of the
world with a smile full of friendly regard, and the hard, cold world
relaxed in its scowl, and smiled back kindly in response. Suspicion
or misanthropy never appeared to have visited him; and
living, as it were, in an atmosphere of joy and hope and youthful
gaiety, he made all around him gay, and had the whole world
for his friends.

The brief season of respite from hostilities which followed the
battles around Richmond soon came to an end. General Stuart
broke up his headquarters in the old grassy yard of Hanover
Court-house; his bugle sounded to horse; and the cavalry
advanced to place itself on the right of the army about to give
battle to Pope on the Rapidan. Here Hardeman Stuart left us,
in performance of his duties as signal officer—and I never saw
him again but for a single moment. That meeting was on the
field of Manassas, when the opposing lines were about to grapple;
when the Southern army, hungry, weary, and travel-worn,
but undaunted, was about to enter upon the decisive conflict with
its old adversary.

Going back in memory to that time, I recall with melancholy
interest the little trifling details of this my last meeting and “last
greeting” with Hardeman Stuart. I was riding, about noon, to
the front of Longstreet's line in search of General Stuart. Under
a tree, immediately in rear of his front line, General Longstreet
had just dismounted, and was taking off a brown linen overall,
the face of the “old war horse” composed, good-natured, but
`full of fight.” Learning from him that General Stuart was

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“just on the right of his line,” I rode in that direction along
the front of the infantry drawn up for battle; the men kneeling
on the left knee; the bayonets bristling above; finger on trigger;
eyes fixed intently on the crest in front over which the
advancing enemy were about to appear.

I went on, and in crossing a fallow of considerable extent,
passed one of those small wooden houses which dot the region
around Manassas. Often as I beheld such spectacles, this melancholy
mansion attracted my attention. It was torn and dismantled—
the huge besom of war seemed to have swept over it,
sparing its very existence only from a sense of its insignificance.
In the broken-down porch were some frightened young women,
and crowds of soldiers had straggled up to cool their parched
lips from a well in the yard.

There were swarms of these crowding around the nearly
exhausted well, and others basked in the sun with a careless air,
which indicated natures callous to the coming battle.

All this was taken in at a single glance, and I was galloping
on, when suddenly I heard a voice which uttered my name.

I drew up and turned around. As I did so, a form detached
itself from the rest, came running toward me with the gay exclamation,
“How d'ye, Captain!” and I recognised Hardeman Stuart.

But what a change! He had always been the neatest person
imaginable in his dress and appearance. His brown hair had
always been carefully parted and brushed, his boots as polished
as assiduous rubbing could make them, and his new uniform coat,
with its gay new braid, had been almost too nice and unwrinkled
for a soldier.

His appearance was in vivid contrast with all this. He was
coatless, unwashed, his boots covered with dust; and his
clothes had the dingy look of the real soldier, who is so often
compelled to lie upon the ground, and to sleep in his apparel.
His hair was unbrushed, and hung disordered around his face,
and the gallant young captain of the Signal Corps had the
appearance of a sapper and miner.

But the face was unchanged—that was the same; gay,
ardent, joyous, as he held out his hand, and grasped mine with

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the same old friendly manner. The young captain was the
image of martial energy and abandon. The bright smile broke
forth from his face like sunshine, and his cheerful voice as he
greeted me was full of the old kindly music.

He was evidently overjoyed to see a familiar face among all
the strange ones around him, where the eye met only alien
glances; to press a friendly hand where none seemed ready to
stretch forth and greet him.

I can see the bright face now, as he turned it up and smiled;
hear the voice with its tones of boyish music as he related his
misfortunes. He had posted himself upon a ridge with his
detachment, and from his station was signalling the movements
of the enemy, when a strong force surprised him, and compelled
him to retire precipitately.

So sudden was the attack that he was very nearly captured.
His horse had been tied near; the young officer's uniform coat,
which he had taken off, from the heat of the weather, strapped
behind the saddle—and there was no time to mount. He
escaped in the woods with his men minus horse and coat; but
seemed to regard the whole affair as an excellent jest, and only
the ordinary “fortune of war.”

His gay laughter followed the narrative, and I remember the
ardent light of the blue eyes looking out from the tangled
curls of the brave boy.

“Well, Hardeman, you have had bad luck,” I said, “but get
another horse and come on.”

“I intend to; tell the General I'll soon be there.”

“Yes.”

“Good-bye.”

I shook the brave hand and rode on. I was never more to
touch it.

I have scarcely the heart to continue my narrative and relate
the sequel. Something affects the throat as you think of these
dead comrades whose hands you have clasped, whose voices you
have heard. Some of the sunsbine left the world when they went,
and life grows dull.

Poor Hardeman! But how can I call him poor? Rich, rather,

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beyond the wealth of kingdoms; for he died in the bloom of
youth, before sorrow touched him, fighting for his native land.

He did not succeed in procuring a horse, which is always difficult
just before a battle; and his brave young soul revolted
from inaction at that moment. He must take his part in the
action, in one capacity if not in another; if not as captain, then
as private; and this resolution was speedily carried out. Procuring
a musket and cartridge-box—old friends of his before his
promotion—he sought for his old Mississippi company, entered
its ranks, charged with them, and fell, shot through the heart.

He died where he fell, and sleeps in the weird path of Manassas.
God rest his soul!

Such was the fate of Hardeman Stuart—an event which brought
the tears to many eyes, albeit unused to the melting mood—
and here my sketch might end. I will add, however, a somewhat
curious incident which occurred a day or two after the
battle.

General Stuart followed the enemy on Sunday, and coming
up with his rear at the bridge over Cub Run, had a slight artillery
engagement, and took many prisoners. The bridge was
destroyed and the cavalry turned to the left, and making a circuit
came into the Little River turnpike, at the mouth of the
Frying Pan road. Proceeding down the turnpike in the direction
of Germantown, a squadron captured a company of the
enemy's cavalry; and advancing further to a small tavern on the
roadside, took prisoners another company who were feeding their
horses in fancied security at the place.

This cavalry formed a portion of that which had operated in
the battles around Groveton; and in possession of one of the
men was found Hardeman Stuart's coat, captured with his horse
and accoutrements on the mountain.

There was no trouble at all in identifying the coat. In the
breast pocket was his captain's commission.

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I FOUND in an old portfolio, the other day, the following slip
from a Norfolk paper of the year 1862:

“The Confederate steamer Arrow arrived here this morning,
from Currituck, having communicated with a steamer sent down
to Roanoke Island under a flag of truce. She brought up the
bodies of Captain O. J. Wise, Lieutenant William Selden, and
Captain Coles. Captain Wise was pierced by three balls, and
Lieutenant Selden was shot through the head. The Yankees
who saw Captain Wise during the fierce and unequal contest,
declare that he displayed a gallantry and valour never surpassed.
Alas, that he has fallen in a contest so unequal! But who has
fallen more honourably, more nobly? Young Selden, too, died
at his gun, while gallantly fighting the enemy that had gathered
in so superior numbers upon our shores.

“Last night, when the steamer arrived at Currituck, General
Wise directed that the coffin containing the remains of his son
be opened. Then, I learn from those who were present, a scene
transpired that words cannot describe. The old hero bent over
the body of his son, on whose pale face the full moon threw its
light, kissed the cold brow many times, and exclaimed, in an
agony of emotion: `Oh, my brave boy, you have died for me,
you have died for me.”'

What an epitaph!

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The gray-haired father, forgetting the past and the future, losing
sight, for the moment, of the war and all other things—
bending and weeping over the dead body of the son who “had
displayed a gallantry and valour never surpassed”—giving his
heart's blood to the cause he loved—the annals of tragedy contain
no spectacle more touching!

Of the remarkable young man who thus poured forth his
blood, and passed away, before the age of thiry, in defence of
his native soil, I propose to give a few personal recollections.
It is hard that a noble soul should go from the haunts of the
living, to be remembered only by the small circle of loving
friends who knew and appreciated him. And though I shall
not attempt anything in the shape of a memoir of young Jennings
Wise, my few words may not prove uninteresting to those
who watched, from a distance, his meteoric career, and perhaps
admired his brave spirit, while ignorance of his real character
led them to misunderstand him.

Jennings Wise!

How many memories that name recalls!—memories of gentleness
and chivalry, and lofty honour, to those who knew him
truly—of fancied arrogance and haughty pride, and bloody instinets,
to those who accepted common rumour for their estimate
of him. For there were many rumours of this description
afloat—and it must be acknowledged that there was some excuse
for the misconception. He had little of the spirit of conciliation
if he believed a man to be his foe; managed early to arouse bitter
enmities; and continued to defy his opponents without
deigning to explain his character or his motives. Before he was
better understood—when the mists were only beginning to clear
away, and show his virtues of devotion, and patriotism, and
kindness—death called him.

Born in Virginia, and going in his early manhood to Europe,
as Secretary of Legation, he there perfected himself in riding,
fencing, and all manly exercises; studying political science, and
training himself, consciously or unconsciously, for the arena upon
which he was to enter soon after his return. He came to Virginia
at a time when the atmosphere was stifling with the heat

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of contending factions in politics, and becoming the chief editor
of the Richmond Enquirer, plunged into the struggle with all
the ardour of a young and ambitious soldier who essays to test
the use of those arms he has been long burnishing for battle.
He did not laek for opponents, for a great contest was raging,
and the minds of men were red-hot with the mighty issues of
the time. He had scarce thrown down the glove when many
hands were extended to take it up. Then commenced a strife
on the political arena, in which the opponents fought each other
with bitter and passionate vehemence. What the pen wrote, the
pistol, unhappily, was too often called upon to support; and the
young politician was ere long engaged in more than one duel,
which achieved for him a widely-extended notoriety and a venomous
party hatred. Of these quarrels I do not design to speak.
It is no part of my purpose to inquire who was to blame or who
was faultless; and I would not move the ashes resting now upon
the details of those unhappy affairs, under which the fire perhaps
still smoulders, full of old enmities. That he was carried
away by passion often, is unfortunately too true; but he had no
love for conflict, and publicly declared his aversion to “private
war.” Unhappily the minds of his political opponents were too
profoundly swayed by the passions of the epoch to give him
credit for these declarations. They were not listened to, and the
young politician became the mark of extreme political hatred.
The sins of passion and the heated arena were regarded as the
coolly planned and deliberately designed crimes of a moral monster,
who had never felt the emotion of pity or love for his
brother man. Intelligent and honourable persons believed that
all the young man's instincts were cruel; that his hatreds were
capricious and implacable; that his nature was that of the tiger,
thirsting for blood; his conscience paralysed or warped by a
terrible moral disease. His splendid oratory, his trenchant;
pen, the dash and courage of his nature, were allowed; but
these were his only “good gifts;” he was, they said, the Ishmael
of the modern world.

All this he knew, and he continued his career, trusting to
time. He fought for secession; joined the First Virginia

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Regiment, and served at Charlestown, in the John Brown raid.
Then war came in due time. He was elected captain of the
Blues—the oldest volunteer company in Virginia—took the
leadership from the first, as one born to command, and fought
and fell at that bloody Roanoke fight, at the head of his company,
and cheering on his men.

His body was brought back to Richmond, laid in the capitol,
and buried, in presence of a great concourse of mourners, in
Hollywood Cemetery. That was the end of the brief young
life—death in defence of his native land, and a grave in the beloved
soil, by the side of the great river, and the ashes of Monroe,
brought thither by himself and his associates.

Then came a revulsion. His character was better understood;
his faults were forgotten; his virtues recognised. Even his old
opponents hastened to express their sympathy and admiration.
It was remembered that more than once he had refused to return
his adversary's fire; that championship of one whom he loved
more than life had inflamed his enmity—no merely selfish considerations.
His sweetness of temper and kindness were recalled
by many, and the eyes which had been bent upon him
with horror or hatred, shed tears beside the young soldier's
grave.

Oh, tardy justice of good men! Oh, laurel-wreath upon the
coffin!—soft words spoken in the dull, cold ear of death! This
soul of chivalry and honour—this gentle, kindly, simple heart—had been branded as the enemy of his species—as a haughty,
soulless, pitiless monster!

In speaking of this young Virginia, I wish to espouse no
personal or party quarrel—to arouse none of those enmities
which sleep now—to open no old wounds, and to fan into flame
none of the heart-burnings of the past. Those who contended
with him most bitterly have long ago forgotten their feud.
Many shed tears for the noble youth when he fell, and speak of
him now as one of those great Virginians whom it is the pride
of our soil to have produced. They know him better now, and
understand that this man was no hater of his species—no Ishmael
of civilization, cold and haughty and implacable—but a

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beautiful and noble nature, attuned to every honourable impulse,
and only embittered temporarily by party passion. Dying, he
has suffered change; and there is a beauty in the pale, cold face,
which it never possessed while living. Traits never suspected
come out now, when Death has stamped the countenance with
his melancholy seal; and love and pity have quite banished the
old scorn and hatred. The green grass on his grave has covered
all enmity, and the love of friends has taken the place of the
bitterness of foes.

Among those friends who knew and loved him living, I count
myself. To know him thus was speedily to love him—for his
traits and instincts were so conspicuously noble and endearing,
that he irresistibly attracted the affection of all who were thrown
in familiar contact with him. How gentle, modest, and unassuming
these inner instincts of his heart were, those who knew
him in his private life will bear witness. They will tell you of
his honest and truthful nature; his unpretending simplicity;
his chivalric impulses, and nobility of feeling. Indeed, you
would have said that the Creator had breathed into this clay the
loveliest traits of humanity, and raised up in the prosaic nineteenth
century a “good knight” of old days, to show the loveliness
of honour.

This was one side of the young man's character, only. With
these softer traits were mingled some of the hardiest endowments
of strong manhood. No man was ever braver. Indeed, his
nerve had in it something antique and splendid, as of the elder
days of chivalry, when neither monster nor magician, giant nor
winged dragon, could make the heart of the good knight quail,
or move him from his steadfast purpose. What in other men
was the courage of habit, or training, or calculation of forces, was
in him that of native endowment and birthright. To match
himself, if need be, against any odds, however overwhelming,
and breast all opposition with a stubborn, dauntless front, was to
act as his character dictated, and to follow his temperament. The
sentiment of fear, I believe, never entered his breast; if it did, it
never stayed there long enough for him to make its acquaintance.
He would have led the charge of the English cavalry at

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Balaklava with the nerve and dash of Hotspur, glorying in the roar
of the enemy's artillery, and resolute to take their guns or die.
At Thermopylæ, he would have stood beside Leonidas, and fought
and died without the shudder of a nerve. In battle at the head
of his men, his coolness and resolution were invincible. The
grim front of war possessed no terrors for him, and he advanced into
the gulf of battle with the calmness of a holiday soldier on parade.

He was early in the lists as the advocate of resistance to the
North, and fought its opponents with persistent vehemence. To
“wait” was to sign the death-warrant of the State, he declared.
“God save the liberties of this brave old Commonwealth!” if
this was the course defined for her. What he preached he practised.
He sounded the onset, and the lines once in motion, he
took his place in the great army. At first as a private, with
musket on shoulder; eager, active, untiring; inspiring all with
his own brave spirit. Then, when his acknowledged capacity
for leadership placed him at the head of a command, he took the
post as his of right, and led his men as all who knew him expected.
How he led them on that disastrous day at Roanoke—
with what heroie nerve, and splendid gallantry, in the face of
the deadliest fire—let his old comrades in arms declare. There,
in the front of battle, he fell—giving his life without a single
regret to the cause he loved.

It was the phase of character, indicated above, which the
outer world chiefly considered, and estimated him by. Yet
this was by no means his most attractive phase. The dauntless
nerve, the stubborn and indomitable will, revealed themselves
on certain occasions only—the social virtues of the individual
were seen every day. It would be difficult to imagine
a human being more modest, kindly, and simple. His modesty
amounted almost to shyness; and it was doubtless this species
of reserve which led many to regard him as cold, and destitute
of feeling. Let it not be understood, however, that he was
subject to mauvaise honte—the diffidence of one who distrusts
his own powers, and shrinks from collision with other minds.

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His peculiarity was rather the reverse, as his perfect self-possession
and control of every faculty in public speaking indicated.
Self-reliance, rather than self-distrust, marked the character of
his intellect—boldness to undertake, and unshrinking courage to
execute. But in this there was no arrogance—no hauteur. In
the combat he would contend with all his powers, and shrink
from no odds: but the contest once over, the hot blood cool, the
old modesty returned, and the kindly, gentle smile. The indulgence
of his affections was evidently one of his chief happinesses.
He was fond of children, and delighted to play with them, sharing
their gambols and amusements with the bonhomie and abandon
of a boy. In such scenes, the vehement young politician no
doubt took refuge from the strife of the public arena, where so
many hot passions met and clashed, and found in the playful
antics of children the antidote to the scorns and hatreds of those
grown-up children—men. It was in the society of the eminent
Virginian, his father, however, that he seemed to experience his
greatest happiness; and his devotion to him was the controlling
sentiment of his being. If this sentiment impelled him to a partisanship
too violent at times, the fault will not be regarded as a
mean or ignoble one, nor detract in any measure from the
character here attributed to him, of the kindest and simplest of
gentlemen.

The intellect which accompanied this courageous spirit and
kindly heart was eminently vigorous and original. It was rather
that of the actor than the thinker—rather, ready, acute, inventive
and fruitful in resources—quick to move and to strike, in
debate or reasoning with the pen—than deliberate, philosophic,
or reflective. It wanted the breadth and depth which result
from study and meditation, but as a sharp and tempered weapon
to accomplish direct tangible results, it was exceedingly forcible
and effective. As a writer in the larger acceptation of the term,
he was not conspicuously endowed; but his style as a journalist
was fluent, eloquent, and when his nature was strongly moved,
full of power and the fire of invective. Some of his editorial
writings deserve to be collected, and preserved in a permanent
form, as among the most forcible expositions of the great

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principles involved in the struggle which absorbed the energies of the
South.

His most notable gift was unquestionably that of oratory. He
possessed native endowments which entitled him to very high
rank as a public speaker. In the columns of a daily journal his
powers were always more or less cramped, and did not assert
their full strength, but on “the stump” he was in his own element.
Here all the faculties of his intellect and nature had full
swing, and “ample room and verge enough” for their exercise.
The spectator saw at a glance that the young man with the thin
slight figure and quiet manner, was a born orator. His first
words justified the opinion, and stamped him as one born to
move, to sway, to direct the thoughts and the actions of men.
The crowd—that unfailing critic of a public speaker's ability—
always received him with acclamations, and hailed his appearance
on the rostrum with loud applause. They felt that, youth
as he was, and as yet untrained in the arts of the orator, he was
a match for the oldest opponents, and they were content to leave
the advocacy of great principles, at momentous crises, in the
hands of this young man—to accept and rely on him as their
champion.

He did not disappoint their expectations ever. A born politician,
and thrilling with the great party issues before the country,
he entered the arena with the bold and self-possessed demeanour
of one in his chosen element, and equal to the occasion. Political
history—the careers of public men—the principles underlying
the American frame of government—all were thoroughly
familiar to him, and his knowledge was available at a moment's
notice. His speeches were skilful combinations of philosophic
reasoning and hard-hitting illustrations. In the employment of
invective, his handling was that of a master; and when his scorn
of some unworthy action or character was fully aroused, his delivery
of the scathing sarcasm or the passionate defiance was
inexpressibly vehement and bitter. Those who have seen the
flashing eye and the scornful lip of the young orator at such
times, will not readily forget them, or wonder at the wild excitement
of the crowd as they listened to these outbursts. Even

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the cool intellects of old men were taken captive with the rest,
and I think all who heard the youthful speaker, came away with
the impression that time and training only were needed, to make
him one of the most famous orators of the old Commonwealth
which has produced so many giants.

With the termination of his speeches disappeared all the passion,
vehemence, and ardour of the man. The handkerchief
passed over the damp brow, seemed to wipe away all excitement;
and the fiery gladiator, swaying all minds by his fierce
invective, or his vivid reasoning, subsided into the quiet, almost
shy young man. The old modesty and simplicity of demeanour
returned, and the forces of the vigorous intellect returned to
rest, until some other occasion should call them into exercise.

I could add many things relating to this eminent young man
in his personal and private character, but the subject may not
interest the general reader as much as it does him who writes.
Perhaps, too, they are better kept for other years, when time
shall have extinguished the few heart-burnings that remain, and
obliterated the scars of old contests. I have thought it right,
however, to put thus much concerning him on record, without
shaping my discourse to please either friend or foe. Foes, I
believe, he has no longer. Even those who most bitterly opposed
him while living, now acknowledge his great qualities,
and lament his untimely end.

If enmity exist toward him in any heart, however, no answering
defiance comes back. The weapon of the good knight will
never more be drawn—he has fought his last battle and yielded
up his soul. He sleeps now quietly, after all the turmoils of
life—after heart-burnings and triumphs, and loves and hatreds—
sleeps in the bosom of the land he loved, and toiled, and thought,
and fought, and died for. His is not the least worthy heart
which has poured out its blood for Virginia and the South; and
in the pages of our annals, among the names of our dead heroes
who surrendered youth, and coming fame, and friends, and home,
and life for their native land—surrendered them without a murmur
or a single regret—among these great souls the Genius of
History must inscribe the name of Jennings Wise.

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PART II. IN THE CAVALRY.

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THE infantry and the artillery of an army live and move and
have their being in a sphere widely different from that of the
cavalry.

The first named arms of the service perform the “heavy
work” in the great pitched battles. When armies face each
other, and the moment has come for a final trial of strength, it
is the infantry and artillery to which a commander looks. When
the sun rises on one of these days of history, the foot-soldier
or the cannoneer feels that all his energies will be required.
If he falls he falls; but if the enemy's bullets spare him, he can
look for rest on the morrow—for a great pitched battle decides
everything. The column may advance or retire, but it seldom
fights very heavily thereafter. The weather, too, counts greatly
for or against active service with the artillery or infantry—the
winter is fatal. Then the wheels of the guns sink in the slushy
soil; wagons cannot move with rations; and thus conquered by
the rain and snow, the cannoneers and musket-bearers settle
down in their comfortable camps, build their log-cabins, or their
arbours of boughs; and days, and weeks, and months pass by
in perfect quiet, until the spring sun dries the roads, and the
thunder of artillery and musketry again roars across the fields
of May or June.

Thus the gunners and footmen bear the brunt in the great
battles, to retire thereafter to camp and rest. Their ranks may
be decimated, but those who survive enjoy something like repose.
They build their chimneys, broil their meat, smoke their
pipes, and lounge, and laugh, and sing around the camp-fire,
with “none to make them afraid.”

The life of the cavalry is different. They do not perform the
hard work in the conflicts of armies, where the improved fire-arms
of modern times would speedily destory their horses—and

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horses were beyond the value of gold, almost, to the South in the
recent war—nor are the losses of the cavalry in any one engagement
as great as those of the infantry. But the work performed
by the mounted men of an army is incessant. They fight
throughout the year—in winter as in summer—when the ground
is a quagmire, as when it is firm. They cannot rest, from the
very nature of things, for they are the “eyes and ears” of an
army. Their duty is to watch—and to watch, the cavalier must
be in the saddle with carbine ready. He must watch by night
as well as day; for night is the season of surprises, and to
guard the army against surprise is the chief duty of the cavalry.
Seeing the long column falling slowly back on days of conclusive
battle, the infantry are apt to sneer, and think, if they do
not say—and they say it often—“We do the hard fighting, the
cavalry the fancy work!” or, “Here comes the cavalry, going
to the rear—a fight is on hand!” They forget, however, one
thing—that while the infantry has been resting in camp, with
regular rations and sound sleep, the cavalry have been day and
night in the saddle, without rations at all, watching and fighting
all along the front. Let justice be done to all; and it is not the
noble infantry or artillery of the late army of Northern Virginia
who will be guilty of injustice to their brethren of the
cavalry, who, under Stuart, Ashby, Hampton, and the Lees, did
that long, hard work, leaving Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania
strewed with their dead bodies.

But a comparison of the relative value of the different arms
was not the writer's purpose. His aim was to point out the
contrast which exists in the mere mode of living. The foot-soldier
is confined to his camp for the greater portion of the
time, and sameness rather than variety, common-place rather
than incident, marks his days. In the cavalry this does not
exist. As there is no rest for the cavalry-man, so there is no
dull routine—no “every day the same.” His life is full of
movement, variety, incident, and adventure; he is ever in the
saddle, and fighting, either as a unit of the long drawn column,
advancing or retiring with the army, or in scouts and skirmishes—
the theatre of his work shifts quietly as do the scenes of a

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drama on the stage. All that makes the hard and brutal trade
of war endurable seems to gather around him, wreathing with
brilliant flowers the keen edge of the sabre.

The bugle sounding “Boots and saddles!” and then “To
horse!” replaces the drum. “To horse and away!” is the
cavalry motto. Once in the saddle and moving, his life of quick
transitions, odd experiences, and perilous or grotesque adventures,
begins in earnest. There is a “glorious uncertainty”
about his movements which is not without a singular charm.
He is not so much a common soldier, as a gay knight-errant,
knowing not where he may lay his head at the end of his day's
journey—certain only that it will not be beneath the shelter of
a tent, nor with any regular ration upon which to stay his
hunger. The infantry and artillery have wagons and rations;
and theoretically the cavalry have also—but only in theory.
They are never “up”—these dilatory wagons—and as to tents,
those are a luxury of which the cavalry-man seldom even
dreams. The blanket behind his saddle is his tent; he lies
down by the bivouac fire supperless often; neither quarter-master
nor commissary favours him; and when he “forages” for
food, he is denounced as a “straggler.”

But the cavalry-man accepts philosophically the uncomplimentary
opinion entertained of him, in view of the certain
charms of his existence. He is the child of adventure, roaming
the fields and forests, and revelling in his freedom. He knows
whence he comes, but not whither the winds will waft him. He is
never at rest; never certain what the next hour, nay, the coming
moment, will bring forth. At any instant may come a surprise,
an attack, the bang of carbines, the clash of sabres—and then,
pursuit or retreat, defeat or victory. If he falls, he falls; if he
survives, he sleeps serenely, wrapped up in his blanket, the root
of a tree or a saddle for a pillow, overhead “the canopy,” all
studded with the fires of night, and dreams of seenes and faces
far away.

Such a life is ever fresh, and possesses never-ending attractions.
To-day an exhausting march and a heavy fight—to-morrow
rest, and stories, and jests, and laughter; one day a feast

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of the rarest—the next a famine of the sorest. To ride on, hour
after hour, through the gloom of night, until the frame is weary
unto death, and the cavalry-man totters in the saddle for very
exhaustion and sleeplessness—that is not pleasant. But then
sleep is magical when he halts at last; food is ambrosial when
he broils his chance slice of bacon on the end of a stick in the
blaze of the camp-fire!

To the cavalry-man belongs the fresh life of the forest—the
wandering existence which brings back the days of old romance. Do you wish to form some conception of the life of that model
cavalry-man and gentleman, Don Quixote? To do so, you have
only to “join the cavalry.” Like the Don, your cavalry-man
goes through the land in search of adventures, and finds many. He penetrates retired localities—old, unknown nooks—meeting
with curious characters and out-of-the-way experiences, which
would make the fortune of a romance writer. Here, far away
from the rushing world and the clash of arms, he finds bright
faces, and is welcomed by “heaven's last best gift”—for woman
is ever the guardian angel of the soldier. She smiles upon him
when he is gloomy; feeds him when he is hungry; and it is
often the musical laughter of a girl which the cavalry-man hears
as he rides on musing—not the rattle of his miserable sabre!
Thus romance, sentiment, and poetry meet him everywhere. And
is he fond of the grotesque? That meets him, too, in a thousand
places. Of the pathetic? Ah! that salutes him often on
the fierce arena of war! Thus, living a fresh life, full of vivid
emotions, he passes his days and nights, till the fatal bullet
comes—laughing, fighting, feasting, starving, to the end.

His life is better than a collegiate education, for it teaches
him the mysteries of human nature. He does not pass his days
amid social circles, marked by respectable uniformity and maddening
common-place, but is thrown in contact with every species of
“moving accident,” every variety of the human species; scouts,
“guerillas,” secret agents, prisoners, night-hawks, spies, friends
in blue coats, enemies in gray—all that the highways and the
byways, the fields, the forests, and the day and the night contain,
pass before the eyes of the cavalry-man. He sees the

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adventurous life of the ranger and partisan, hears the ring of
the sabre, the crack of sharpshooters, the roar of cannon, and
the shouts of the squadrons as they charge. His is the existence
of the rover: the sudden peril, the narrow escape, and the fun
and frolic of the bivouac. When he summons his recollections,
it is not so much the “great events” of war as its pictures and
incidents of which he discourses. He revives its romantic
scenes and gay adventures, only—remembering its smiles, sighs,
laughter, tears, its gloom or sunlight, as it actually lowered or
shone. The writer of this eulogy has carried a musket, albeit
he never did hard work with it; has served in the artillery, and
loves it, as he honours the great arm which thundered upon
every battle-field, and held the rear, all along the Valley, against
Sheridan, and fired the last gun of the war at Appomatox. It
is simply not possible that he could utter a word against those
heroes of the infantry and artillery whom he is proud to call
his comrades; but he remembers with most interest and pleasure
the gay days when he “followed the feather” of Stuart, that
fleur des chevaliers. In the saddle, near that good knight of the
nineteenth century, war became a splendid drama, rather than
mere bloody work; a great stage, whereon the scenes were ever
shifting, and the “exits” were all made to the sound of the
bugle! That sound was stirring; and recalling now his various
experiences, the writer of this page hears the ring of the bugle,
not the roll of the drum; remembers the life of the cavalry
rather than that of the infantry or the artillery.

Some of these memories are here recorded. The narratives
are necessarily egotistical in appearance, since the writer was
compelled to speak of what he saw in person, not by others'
eyes, to give any value to his recollections. The reader is
solicited, however, to regard this circumstance as unavoidable,
and further to believe that a fondness for making himself conspicuous
is not a trait of the writer's character. For the rest,
the pictures he has drawn are accurate, as far as his ability has
enabled him to present figures and events in their real colours. If the record is dull, it is the dulness of truth, not the stupidity
of a bad romance.

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Who that went with Stuart on his famous “Ride around
McClellan” in the summer of 1862, just before the bloody
battles of the Chickahominy, will ever forget the fun, the frolic,
the romance—and the peril too—of that fine journey? Thinking
of the gay ride now, when a century seems to have swept
between that epoch and the present, I recall every particular,
live over every emotion. Once more I hear the ringing laugh of
Stuart, and see the keen flash of the blue eyes under the black
feather of the prince of cavaliers!

If the reader will follow me he shall see what took place on
this rapid ride, witness some incidents of this first and king of
raids. The record will be that of an eye-witness, and the personal
prominence of the writer must be excused as inseparable
from the narrative. I need not dwell upon the “situation” in
June, 1862. All the world knows that, at that time, McClellan
had advanced with his magnificent army of 156,000 men, to the
banks of the Chickahominy, and pushing across, had fought on
the last day of May the bloody but indecisive battle of the Seven
Pines. On the right it was a Confederate, on the left a Federal
success; and General McClellan drew back, marshalled his great
lines, darkening both the northern and southern banks of the
Chickahominy, and prepared for a more decisive blow at the
Confederate capital, whose spires were in sight. Before him,

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however, lay the Southern army, commanded now by Lee, who
had succeeded Johnston, wounded in the fight of “Seven Pines.” The moment was favourable for a heavy attack by Lee. Jackson
had just driven before him the combined forces of Shields
and Fremont, and on the bloody field of Port Republic ended
the great campaign of the Valley at one blow. The veterans of
his command could now be concentrated on the banks of the
Chickahominy against McClellan; a combined advance of the
forces under Lee and Jackson might save the capital. But how
should the attack be made? In council of war, General Stuart
told me he proposed an assault upon General McClellan's left
wing from the direction of James River, to cut him off from that
base. But this suggestion was not adopted; the defences were
regarded as too strong. It was considered a better plan to attack
the Federal army on the north bank of the Chickahominy, drive
it from its works, and try the issue in the fields around Cold
Harbour. The great point was to ascertain if this was practicable,
and especially to find what defences, if any, the enemy had
to guard the approach to their right wing. If these were slight,
the attack could be made with fair prospects of success. Jackson
could sweep around while Lee assailed the lines near Mechanicsville;
then one combined assault would probably defeat the
Federal force. To find the character of the enemy's works
beyond the stream—his positions and movements—General
Stuart was directed to take a portion of his cavalry, advance as
far as Old Church, if practicable, and then be guided by circumstances.
Such were the orders with which Stuart set out about
moonrise on the night, I think, of June 12, upon this dangerous
expedition.

As the young cavalier mounted his horse on that moonlight
night he was a gallant figure to look at. The gray coat buttoned
to the chin; the light French sabre balanced by the pistol in its
black holster; the cavalry boots above the knee, and the brown
hat with its black plume floating above the bearded features,
the brilliant eyes, and the huge moustache, which curled with
laughter at the slightest provocation—these made Stuart the perfect
picture of a gay cavalier, and the spirited horse he rode

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seemed to feel that he carried one whose motto was to “do or
die.” I chanced to be his sole companion as he galloped over
the broad field near his headquarters, and the glance of the blue
eyes of Stuart at that moment was as brilliant as the lightning
itself.

Catching up with his column of about 1500 horsemen, and
two pieces of horse-artillery under Colonels William H. F. Lee,
Fitz Lee, and Will. T. Martin, of Mississippi—cavalier as brave
as ever drew sabre—Stuart pushed on northward as if going to
join Jackson, and reaching the vicinity of Taylorsville, near
Hanover Junction, went that night into bivonac. He embraced
the opportunity, after midnight, of riding with Colonel W. H.
F. Lee to “Hickory Hill,” the residence of Colonel Williams
Wickham—afterward General Wickham—who had been recently
wounded and paroled. Here he went to sleep in his
chair after talking with Colonel Wickham, narrowly escaped
capture from the enemy near, and returning before daylight,
advanced with his column straight upon Hanover Court-House. Have you ever visited this picturesque spot, reader? We looked
upon it on that day of June—upon its old brick court-house,
where Patrick Henry made his famous speech against the persons,
its ancient tavern, its modest roofs, the whole surrounded
by the fertile fields waving with golden grain—all this we looked
at with unusual interest. For in this little bird's nest, lost as it
were in a sea of rippling wheat and waving foliage, some “Yankee
cavalry” had taken up their abode; their horses stood
ready saddled in the street, and this dark mass we now gazed at
furtively from behind a wooden knoll, in rear of which Stuart's
column was drawn up ready to move at the word. Before he
gave the signal, the General dispatched Colonel Fitz Lee round
to the right, to flank and cut off the party. But all at once the
scouts in front were descried by the enemy; shots resounded;
and seeing that his presence was discovered, Stuart gave the
word, and swept at a thundering gallop down the hill. The
startled “blue birds,” as we used to call our Northern friends,
did not wait; the squadron on picket at the court-house, numbering
some one hundred and fifty men, hastily got to horse—

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“STUART'S RIDE AROUND McCLELLAN.—Page 177
The gay chase continued until we reached the Tottapotamoi.”
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then presto! they disappear in a dense cloud of dust from which
echo some parting salutes from their carbines. Stuart pressed
on rapidly, took the road to Old Church, and near a place called
Hawes' Shop, in a thickly wooded spot, was suddenly charged
himself. It did not amount to much, and seemed rather an
attempt at reconnoissance. A Federal officer at the head of a
detachment came on at full gallop, very nearly ran into the head
of our column, and then seeing the dense mass of gray coats,
fired his pistol, wheeled short about, and went back at full speed,
with his detachment.

Stuart had given, in his ringing voice, the order: “Form
fours! draw sabre! charge!” and now the Confederate people
pursued at headlong speed, uttering shouts and yells sufficiently
loud to awaken the seven sleepers! The men were evidently
exhilarated by the chase, the enemy just keeping near enough
to make an occasional shot practicable. A considerable number
of the Federal cavalrymen were overtaken and captured, and
these proved to belong to the company in which Colonel Fitz
Lee had formerly been a lieutenant. I could not refrain from
laughter at the pleasure which “Colonel Fitz”—whose motto
should be “toujours gai”—seemed to take in inquiring after his
old cronies. “Was Brown alive? where was Jones? and was
Robinson sergeant still?” Colonel Fitz never stopped until he
found out everything. The prisoners laughed as they recognised
him. Altogether, reader, the interview was the most
friendly imaginable.

The gay chase continued until we reached the Tottapotamoi, a
sluggish stream, dragging its muddy waters slowly between
rush-clad banks, beneath drooping trees; and this was crossed
by a small rustic bridge. The line of the stream was entirely
undefended by works; the enemy's right wing was unprotected;
Stuart had accomplished the object of his expedition, and afterward
piloted Jackson over this very same road. But to continue
the narrative of his movements. The picket at the bridge
had been quickly driven in, and disappeared at a gallop, and on
the high ground beyond, Colonel W. H. F. Lee, who had taken
the front, encountered the enemy. The force appeared to be

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about a regiment, and they were drawn up in line of battle in
the fields to receive our attack. It came without delay. Placing
himself at the head of his horsemen, Colonel Lee swept forward
at the pas de charge, and with shouts the two lines came
together. The shock was heavy, and the enemy—a portion of
the old United States Regulars, commanded by Captain Royal—
stood their ground bravely, meeting the attack with the sabre.
Swords clashed, pistols and carbines banged, yells, shouts, cheers
resounded; then the Federal line was seen to give back, and
take to headlong flight. They were pursued with ardour, and
the men were wild with this—to many of them—their first fight.
But soon after all joy disappeared from their faces, at sight of a
spectacle which greeted them. Captain Latanè, of the Essex
cavalry, had been mortally wounded in the charge, and as the
men of his company saw him lying bloody before them, many a
bearded face was wet with tears. The scene at his grave afterward
became the subject of Mr. Washington's picture, “The
Burial of Latanè;” and in his general order after the expedition,
Stuart called upon his command to take for their watchword in
the future “Avenge Latanè!” Captain Royal, the Federal commandant,
had also been badly wounded, and many of his force
killed. I remember passing a Dutch cavalryman who was
writhing with a bullet through the breast, and biting and tearing
up the ground. He called for water, and I directed a servant
at a house near by to bring him some. The last I saw of him,
a destitute cavalryman was taking off his spurs as he was dying.
War is a hard trade.

Fitz Lee immediately pressed on and burst into the camp
near Old Church, where large supplies of boots, pistols, liquors,
and other commodities were found. These were speedily appropriated
by the men, and the tents were set on fire amid loud
shouts. The spectacle was animating; but a report having
got abroad that one of the tents contained powder, the vicinity
thereof was evacuated in almost less than no time. We were
now at Old Church, where Stuart was to be guided in his further
movements by circumstances. I looked at him; he was evidently
reflecting. In a moment he turned round to me and said:

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“Tell Fitz Lee to come along, I'm going to move on with my
column.” These words terminated my doubt, and I understood
in an instant that the General had decided on the bold and
hazardous plan of passing entirely round McClellan's army.

“I think the quicker we move now the better,” I said, with a
laugh.

“Right,” was Stuart's reply; “tell the column to move on at
a trot.”

So at a rapid trot the column moved.

The gayest portion of the raid now began. From this
moment it was neck or nothing, do or die. We had one chance
of escape against ten of capture or destruction.

Stuart had decided upon his course with that rapidity, good
judgment, and decision, which were the real secrets of his splendid
efficiency as a leader of cavalry, in which capacity I believe
that he has never been surpassed, either in the late war or any
other. He was now in the very heart of the enemy's citadel,
with their enormous masses upon every side. He had driven in
their advanced force, passed within sight of the white tents of
General McClellan's headquarters, burned their camps, and ascertained
all that he wished. How was he to return? He could
not cross the Pamunkey, and make a circuit back; he had no
pontoons. He could not return over the route by which he had
advanced. As events afterward showed, the alarm had been
given, and an overpowering force of infantry, cavalry, and artillery
had been rapidly moved in that direction to intercept the
daring raider. Capture stared him in the face, on both of these
routes—across the Pamunkey, or back as he came; he must
find some other loophole of escape.

Such was the dangerous posture of affairs, and such was the
important problem which Stuart decided in five minutes. He
determined to make the complete circuit of McClellan's army;
and crossing the Chickahominy below Long Bridge, re-enter
the Confederate lines from Charles City. If on his way he

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encountered cavalry he intended to fight it; if a heavy force of
infantry barred his way he would elude, or cut a path through it;
if driven to the wall and debarred from escape he did not mean
to surrender. A few days afterward I said to him:

“That was a tight place at the river, General. If the enemy
had come down on us, you would have been compelled to have
surrendered.”

“No,” was his reply; “one other course was left.”

“What was that?”

“To die game.

And I know that such was his intention. When a commander
means to die game rather than surrender he is a dangerous
adversary.

From Old Church onward it was terra incognita. What force
of the enemy barred the road was a question of the utmost
interest, but adventure of some description might be safely
counted on. In about twenty-four hours I, for one, expected
either to be laughing with my friends within the Southern lines,
or dead, or captured. Which of these three results would follow,
seemed largely to depend upon the “chapter of accidents.” At
a steady trot now, with drawn sabres and carbines ready, the
cavalry, followed by the horse-artillery, which was not used during
the whole expedition, approached Tunstall's Station on the
York River railroad, the enemy's direct line of communication
with his base of supplies at the “White House.”

Everywhere the ride was crowded with incident. The scouting
and flanking parties constantly picked up stragglers, and
overhauled unsuspecting wagons filled with the most tempting
stores. In this manner a wagon, stocked with champagne
and every variety of wines, belonging to a General of the
Federal army, fell a prey to the thirsty gray-backs. Still they
pressed on. Every moment an attack was expected in front or
rear. Colonel Will. T. Martin commanded the latter. “Tell
Colonel Martin,” Stuart said to me, “to have his artillery ready,
and look out for an attack at any moment.” I had delivered
the message and was riding to the front again, when suddenly a
loud cry arose of “Yankees in the rear!” Every sabre flashed,

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fours were formed, the men wheeled about, when all at once a
stunning roar of laughter ran along the line; it was a canard.
The column moved up again with its flanking parties well out.
The men composing the latter were, many of them, from the
region, and for the first time for months saw their mothers and
sisters. These went quite wild at sight of their sons and
brothers. They laughed and cried, and on the appearance of
the long gray column instead of the familiar blue coats of the
Federal cavalry, they clapped their hands and fell into ecstasies
of delight. One young lady was seen to throw her arms around
a brother she had not before met for a long time, bursting into
alternate sobs and laughter.

The column was now skirting the Pamunkey, and a detachment
hurried off to seize and burn two or three transports lying
in the river. Soon a dense cloud rose from them, the flames
soared up, and the column pushed on. Everywhere were seen
the traces of flight—for the alarm of “hornets in the hive” was
given. Wagons had turned over, and were abandoned—from
others the excellent army stores had been hastily thrown. This
writer got a fine red blanket, and an excellent pair of cavalry
pantaloons, for which he still owes the United States. Other
things lay about in tempting array, but we were approaching
Tunstall's, where the column would doubtless make a charge;
and to load down a weary horse was injudicious. The advance
guard was now in sight of the railroad. There was no question
about the affair before us. The column must cut through,
whatever force guarded the railroad; to reach the lower Chickahominy
the guard here must be overpowered. Now was the
time to use the artillery, and every effort was made to hurry it
forward. But alas! it had got into a tremendous mudhole,
and the wheels were buried to the axle. The horses were
lashed, and jumped, almost breaking the traces; the drivers
swore; the harness cracked—but the guns did not move.
“Gat! Lieutenant,” said a sergeant of Dutch origin to the brave
Lieutenant McGregor, “it can't be done. But just put that keg
on the gun, Lieutenant,” pointing, as he spoke, to a keg of whiskey
in an ambulance, the spoil of the Federal camp, “and tell the

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men they can have it if they only pull through!” McGregor
laughed, and the keg was quickly perched on the gun. Then
took place an exhibition of herculean muscularity which would
have delighted Guy Livingston. With eyes fixed ardently upon
the keg, the powerful cannoneers waded into the mudhole up to
their knees, seized the wheels of gun and caisson loaded down
with ammunition, and just simply lifted the whole out, and put
them on firm ground. The piece whirled on—the keg had been
dismounted—the cannoneers revelled in the spoils they had
earned.

Tunstall's was now nearly in sight, and that good fellow
Captain Frayser, afterward Stuart's signal officer, came back
and reported one or two companies of infantry at the railroad.
Their commander had politely beckoned to him as he reconnoitred,
exclaiming in wheedling accents, full of Teutonic
blandishment, “Koom yay!” But this cordial invitation was
disregarded; Frayser galloped back and reported, and the ringing
voice of Stuart ordered “Form platoons! draw sabre!
charge!” At the word the sabres flashed, a thundering shout
arose, and sweeping on in column of platoons, the gray people
fell upon their blue adversaries, gobbling them up, almost without
a shot. It was here that my friend Major F—got the
hideous little wooden pipe he used to smoke afterward. He
had been smoking a meerschaum when the order to charge was
given; and in the rush of the horsemen, dropped and lost it.
He now wished to smoke, and seeing that the captain of the
Federal infantry had just filled his pipe, leaned down from the
saddle, and politely requested him to surrender it.

“I want to smoke!” growled the Federal captain.

“So do I,” retorted Major F—.

“This pipe is my property,” said the captain.

“Oh! what a mistake!” responded the major politely, as he
gently took the small affair and inserted it between his lips.
Anything more hideous than the carved head upon it I never
saw.

The men swarmed upon the railroad. Quick axes were
applied to the telegraph poles, which crashed down, and

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Redmond Burke went in command of a detachment to burn a small
bridge on the railroad near. Suddenly in the midst of the
tumult was beard the shrill whistle of a train coming from the
direction of the Chickahominy. Stuart quickly drew up his
men in a line on the side of the road, and he had no sooner done
so than the train came slowly round a wooded bend, and bore
down. When within two hundred yards it was ordered to halt,
but the command was not obeyed. The engineer crowded on all
steam; the train rushed on, and then a thundering volley was
opened upon the “flats” containing officers and men. The
engineer was shot by Captain Farley, of Stuart's staff, and a
number of the soldiers were wounded. The rest threw themselves
upon their faces; the train rushed headlong by like some
frightened monster bent upon escape, and in an instant it had
disappeared.

Stuart then reflected for a single moment. The question was,
should he go back and attack the White House, where enormous
stores were piled up? It was tempting, and he afterwards told
me he could scarcely resist it. But a considerable force of infantry
was posted there; the firing had doubtless given them the
alarm; and the attempt was too hazardous. The best thing
for that gray column was to set their faces toward home, and
“keep moving,” well closed up both day and night, for the
lower Chickahominy. So Stuart pushed on. Beyond the railroad
appeared a world of wagons, loaded with grain and coffee—
standing in the road abandoned. Quick work was made of
them. They were all set on fire, and their contents destroyed.
From the horse-trough of one I rescued a small volume bearing
on the fly-leaf the name of a young lady of Williamsburg. I
think it was a volume of poems—poetic wagon-drivers!

These wagons were only the “vaunt couriers”—the advance
guard—of the main body. In a field beyond the stream thirty
acres were covered with them. They were all burned. The
roar of the soaring flames was like the sound of a forest on fire.
How they roared and crackled! The sky overhead, when night
had descended, was bloody-looking in the glare.

Meanwhile the main column had moved on, and I was riding

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after it, when I heard the voice of Stuart in the darkness
exclaiming with strange agitation:

“Who is here?”

“I am,” I answered; and as he recognised my voice he exclaimed:

“Good! where is Rooney Lee?”

“I think he has moved on, General.”

“Do you know it?” came in the same agitated tone.

“No, but I believe it.”

“Will you swear to it? I must know! He may take the
wrong road, and the column will get separated!”

“I will ascertain if he is in front.”

“Well, do so; but take care—you will be captured!”

I told the General I would “gallop on for ever till I found
him,” but I had not gone two hundred yards in the darkness
when hoof-strokes in front were heard, and I ordered:

“Halt! who goes there?”

“Courier, from Colonel William Lee.”

“Is he in front?”

“About a mile, sir.”

“Good!” exclaimed the voice of Stuart, who had galloped up;
and I never heard in human accents such an expression of relief.
If the reader of this has ever commanded cavalry, moving at
night in an enemy's country, he will understand why Stuart
drew that long, deep breath, and uttered that brief word,
“Good!” Once separated from the main column and lost—
good-by then to Colonel Lee!

Pushing on by large hospitals which were not interfered with,
we reached at midnight the three or four houses known as Tallcysville;
and here a halt was ordered to rest men and horses, and
permit the artillery to come up. This pause was fatal to a sutler's
store from which the owners had fled. It was remorselessly
ransacked and the edibles consumed. This historian ate in succession
flgs, beef-tongue, pickle, candy, tomato catsup, preserves,
lemons, cakes, sausages, molasses, crackers, and canned
meats. In presence of these attractive commodities the spirits
of many rose. Those who in the morning had made me laugh

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by saying, “General Stuart is going to get his command
destroyed—this movement is mad,” now regarded Stuart as the
first of men; the raid as a feat of splendour and judieious daring
which could not fail in terminating successfully. Such is the
difference in the views of the military machine, unfed and fed.

In an hour the column moved again. Meanwhile a little incident
had happened which still makes me laugh. There was a
lady living some miles off in the enemy's line whom I wished
to visit, but I could not obtain the General's consent. “It is
certain capture,” he said; “send her a note by some citizen, say
Dr. H—; he lives near here.” This I determined to do, and
set off at a gallop through the moonlight for the house, some
half a mile distant, looking out for the scouting parties which
were probably prowling on our flanks. Reaching the lonely
house, outside the pickets, I dismounted, knocked at the front
door, then the back, but received no answer. All at once, however,
a dark figure was seen gliding beneath the trees, and this
figure cautiously approached. I recognised the Doctor, and
called to him, whereupon he quickly approached, and said, “I
thought you were a Yankee!” and greeting me cordially, led
the way into the house. Here I wrote my note and entrusted it
to him for delivery—taking one from him to his wife, within our
lines. In half an hour I rode away, but before doing so asked
for some water, which was brought from the well by a sleepy,
sullen, and insolent negro. This incident was fruitful of woes to
Dr. H—! A month or two afterwards I met him looking as
thin and white as a ghost.

“What is the matter?” I said.

“The matter is,” he replied, with a melancholy laugh, “that I
have been starving for three weeks in Fortress Monroe on your
account. Do you remember that servant who brought you the
water that night on Stuart's raid?”

“Perfectly.”

“Well, the very next day he went over to the Yankee picket

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and told them that I had entertained Confederate officers, and
given you all information which enabled you to get off safely.
In consequence I was arrested, carried to Old Point, and am
just out!”

I rejoined the column at Talleysville just as it began to move
on the road to Forge Bridge. The highway lay before us, white
in the unclouded splendour of the moon. The critical moment
was yet to come. Our safety was to turn apparently on a throw
of the dice, rattled in the hand of Chance. The exhaustion of
the march now began to tell on the men. Whole companies
went to sleep in the saddle, and Stuart himself was no exception.
He had thrown one knee over the pommel of his saddle, folded
his arms, dropped the bridle, and—chin on breast, his plumed
hat drooping over his forehead—was sound asleep. His surefooted
horse moved steadily, but the form of the General tottered
from side to side, and for miles I held him erect by the
arm. The column thus moved on during the remainder of the
night, the wary advance guard encountering no enemies and
giving no alarm. At the first streak of dawn the Chickahominy
was in sight, and Stuart was spurring forward to the ford.

It was impassable! The heavy rains had so swollen the
waters that the crossing was utterly impracticable! Here we
were within a few miles of McClellan's army, with an enraged
enemy rushing on our track to make us rue the day we had
“circumvented” them, and inflicted on them such injury and
insult; here we were with a swollen and impassable stream
directly in our front—the angry waters roaring around the halfsubmerged
trunks of the trees—and expecting every instant to
hear the crack of carbines from the rear-guard indicating the
enemy's approach! The “situation” was not pleasing. I certainly
thought that the enemy would be upon us in about an
hour, and death or capture would be the sure alternative. This
view was general. I found that cool and resolute officer, Colonel
William H. F. Lee, on the river's bank. He had just attempted
to swim the river, and nearly drowned his horse among the
tangled roots and snags. I said to him:

“What do you think of the situation, Colonel?”

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“Well, Captain,” was the reply, in the speaker's habitual tone
of cheerful courtesy, “I think we are caught.”

The men evidently shared this sentiment. The scene upon
the river's bank was curious, and under other circumstances
would have been laughable. The men lay about in every attitude,
half-overcome with sleep, but holding their bridles, and
ready to mount at the first alarm. Others sat their horses
asleep, with drooping shoulders. Some gnawed crackers; others
ate figs, or smoked, or yawned. Things looked “blue,” and
that colour was figuratively spread over every countenance.
When this writer assumed a gay expression of countenance,
laughed, and told the men it was “all right,” they looked at him
as same men regard a lunatic! The general conviction evidently
was that “all right” was the very last phrase by which to
describe the situation.

There was only one man who never desponded, or bated one
“jot or tittle of the heart of hope.” That was Stuart. I had
never been with him in a tight place before, but from that moment
I felt convinced that he was one of those men who rise
under pressure. He was aroused, strung for the hard struggle
before him, and resolute to do or die; but he was not excited. All
I noticed in his bearing to attract attention was a peculiar fashion
of twisting his beard, certain proof with him of surrounding
peril. Otherwise he was cool and looked dangerous. He
said a few words to Colonel Lee, found the ford impassable, and
then ordering his column to move on, galloped down the stream
to a spot where an old bridge had formerly stood. Reaching
this point, a strong rear-guard was thrown out, the artillery
placed in position, and Stuart set to work vigorously to
rebuild the bridge, determined to bring out his guns or die
trying.

The bridge had been destroyed, but the stone abutments remained
some thirty or forty feet only apart, for the river here ran
deep and narrow between steep banks. Between these stone sentinels,
facing each other, was an “aching void” which it was necessary
to fill. Stuart gave his personal superintendence to the work,
he and his staff labouring with the men. A skiff was procured;

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this was affixed by a rope to a tree, in the mid-current just
above the abutments, and thus a movable pier was secured in
the middle of the stream. An old barn was then hastily torn
to pieces and robbed of its timbers; these were stretched down
to the boat, and up to the opposite abutment, and a foot-bridge
was thus ready. Large numbers of the men immediately unsaddled
their horses, took their equipments over, and then
returning, drove or rode their horses into the stream, and swam
them over. In this manner a considerable number crossed; but
the process was much too slow. There, besides, was the artillery,
which Stuart had no intention of leaving. A regular
bridge must be built without a moment's delay, and to this
work Stuart now applied himself with ardour.

Heavier blows resounded from the old barn; huge timbers
approached, borne on brawny shoulders, and descending into the
boat anchored in the middle of the stream, the men lifted them
across. They were just long enough; the ends rested on the
abutments, and immediately thick planks were hurried forward
and laid crosswise, forming a secure footway for the cavalry and
artillery horses. Standing in the boat beneath, Stuart worked
with the men, and as the planks thundered down, and the
bridge steadily advanced, the gay voice of the General was
heard humming a song. He was singing carelessly, although at
every instant an overpowering force of the enemy was looked
for, and a heavy attack upon the disordered cavalry.

At last the bridge was finished; the artillery crossed amid
hurrahs from the men, and then Stuart slowly moved his cavalry
across the shaky footway. A little beyond was another arm of
the river, which was, however, fordable, as I ascertained and
reported to the General; the water just deep enough to swim a
small horse; and through this, as through the interminable
sloughs of the swamp beyond, the head of the column moved.
The prisoners, who were numerous, had been marched over in
advance of everything, and these were now mounted on mules,
of which several hundred had been cut from the captured
wagons and brought along. They were started under an escort
across the ford, and into the swamp beyond. Here, mounted

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often two on a mule, they had a disagreeable time; the mules
constantly falling in the treacherous mud-holes, and rolling their
riders in the ooze. When a third swamp appeared before them,
one of the Federal prisoners exclaimed, with tremendous indignation,
“How many d—d Chicken-hominies are there, I wonder,
in this infernal country!”

The rear-guard, under Colonel W. H. F. Lee, had mean while
moved down steadily from the high ground, and defiled across
the bridge. The hoofs clattered on the hasty structure, the
head of the column was turned toward the ford beyond, the last
squadron had just passed, and the bridge was being destroyed,
when shots resounded on the opposite bank of the stream, and
Colonel Rush thundered down with his “lancers” to the bank.
He was exactly ten minutes too late. Stuart was over with his
artillery, and the swollen stream barred the way, even if Colonel
Rush thought it prudent to “knock up against” the one thousand
five hundred crack cavalry of Stuart. His men banged
away at Colonel Lee, and a parting salute whizzed through the
trees as the gray column slowly disappeared.

A lady of New Kent afterwards told me that Colonel Rush
stopped at her house on his return, looking weary, broken down,
and out of humour. When she asked him if he had “caught
Stuart,” he replied, “No, he has gone in at the back door. I
only saw his rear-guard as it passed the swamp.”

Stuart had thus eluded his pursuers, and was over the Chickahominy
in the hospitable county of Charles City. The gentlemen
of the county, we afterwards heard, had been electrified by
the rumour that “Stuart was down at the river trying to get
across,” and had built a hasty bridge for us lower down. We
were over, however, and reaching Mr. C—'s, the General and
his staff lay down on a carpet spread on the grass in the June
sunshine, and went to sleep. This was Sunday. I had not
slept since Friday night, except by suatches in the saddle,

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and in going on to Richmond afterwards fell asleep every few
minutes on horseback.

Two hours of slumber, however, made Stuart as fresh as a
lark; and having eaten Mr. C—very nearly out of house and
home, we pushed on all day. At night the column stopped,
and I thought the General would stop too; but he said, “I am
going to Richmond to-night; would you like to ride with me?”
I was obliged to decline; my horse was worn out. Stuart set out
by himself, rode all night, and before daylight had passed over
the thirty miles. An hour afterwards General Lee and the
President knew the result of his expedition. The cavalry
returned on the same day, moving slowly in front of the gunboats,
which fired upon them; but no harm was done. Richmond
was reached; and amid an ovation from delighted friends
we all went to sleep.

Such was Stuart's ride around McClellan's army in those
summer days of 1862. The men who went with him look back
to it as the most romantic and adventurous incident of the war.
It was not indeed so much a military expedition as a raid of
romance—a “scout” of Stuart's with fifteen hundred horsemen!
It was the conception of a bold and brilliant mind, and the
execution was as fearless. “That was the most dangerous of all
my expeditions,” the General said to me long afterwards; “if I
had not succeeded in crossing the Chickahominy, I would have
been ruined, as there was no way of getting out.” The Emperor
Napoleon, a good soldier, took this view of it; when tracing out
on the map Stuart's route from Taylorsville by Old Church to
the lower Chickahominy, he characterized the movement as that
of a cavalry officer of the first distinction. This criticism was
only just, and the raid will live in history for three reasons:

1. It taught the enemy “the trick,” and showed them the
meaning of the words “cavalry raid.” What General Kilpatrick,
Sheridan, and others afterwards effected, was the work of the
pupil following the master.

2. It was on a magnificent arena, to which the eyes of the
whole world were attracted at the time; and,

3. In consequence of the information which Stuart furnished,

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Gen. Lee, a fortnight afterwards, attacked and defeated General
McClellan.

These circumstances give a very great interest to all the incidents
of the movement. I hope the reader has not been wearied
by my minute record of them. To the old soldiers of Stuart
there is a melancholy pleasure in recalling the gay scenes amid
which he moved, the exploits which he performed, the hard work
he did. He is gone; but even in memory it is something to
again follow his feather.

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Sometimes, in dreams as it were, the present writer—like many
others, doubtless—goes back in memory across the gulf of years
to 1861, recalling its great scenes and personages, and living
once more in that epoch full of such varied and passionate emotions.
Manassas! Centreville! Fairfax! Vienna!—what memories
do those names excite in the hearts of the old soldiers of
Beauregard! That country, now so desolate, was then a virgin
land, untouched by the foot of war. The hosts who were to
trample it still lingered upon the banks of the Potomac; and the
wildest fancy could not have prefigured its fate. It was a smiling
country, full of joy and beauty—the domain of “ancient
peace;” and of special attraction were the little villages, sleeping
like Centreville in the hollow of green hills, or perched like
Fairfax on the summit of picturesque uplands. These were old
Virginia hamlets, full of recollections; here the feet of Mason
and Washington had trod, and here had grown up generation
after generation ignorant of war. Peace reigned supreme; the
whole landscape was the picture of repose; the villages, amid
the foliage of their elms or oaks, slept like birds that have nestled
down to rest amid the grass and blossoms of the green spring
fields.

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Look first upon that picture, then on this!—the picture of a
region blasted by the hot breath of war. Where now was the
joy of the past? where the lovely land once smiling in fresh
beauty, and the charm of peaceful years? All the flowers and
sunshine had disappeared. The springing grasses, the budding
forests, the happy dwellings—all had vanished. Over the smiling
fields the hoofs of cavalry had trampled; the woods had
been cut down to furnish fuel for the camp fires; the fences had
preceded them; the crops and forage had been gleaned for the
horses of the troopers. The wheels of artillery and army trains
had worn the roads into ruts and quagmires; opposing columns
had advanced or retreated over every foot of ground, leaving
their traces everywhere; those furrows over which the broom-straw
waved in the winter wind, or the spring flowers nodded in
the airs of May, were ploughed by cannon-balls.

The war-dogs had bayed here, and torn to pieces house and
field and forest. The villages were the forlorn ghosts of themselves,
and seemed to look at you out of those vacant eyes, their
open windows, with a sort of dumb despair. They were the
eloquent monuments of the horrors of war—the veritable
“abodes of owls.” Had a raven croaked from the dead trees
riven by cannon-balls, or a wolf growled at you from the
deserted houses, you would have felt not the least astonishment.
As you passed through those villages, once so smiling, the tramp
of the cavalry horses, or the rumbling wheels of the artillery,
made the echoes resound; and a few heads were thrust from the
paneless windows. Then they disappeared; silence settled down
again, and the melancholy hamlet gave place to the more
melancholy fields. Here all was waste and desolate; no woods,
no fences, no human face; only torn-down and dismantled
houses, riddled with bullets, or charred by the torch of war.
The land seemed doomed, and to rest under a curse. That
Federal vedette younder, as we advance, is the only living object
we behold, and even he disappears like a phantom. Can this,
you murmur, be the laughing land of yesterday, the abode of
peace, and happiness, and joy? Can this be Fairfax, where the
fields of wheat once rolled their golden waves in the summer

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wind, and the smiling houses held out arms of welcome? Look!
it has become a veritable Golgotha—the “place of skulls”—a
sombre Jehoshaphat full of dead men's bones!

I remember all that, and shall ever remember it; but in contrast
with these scenes of ruin and desolation, come back a
thousand memories, gay, joyous, and instinct with mirth. The
hard trade of war is not all tragedy; let us laugh, friends, when
we can; there are smiles as well as tears, comedy as well as
tragedy, in the great and exciting drama. You don't weep
much when the sword is in the hand. You fight hard; and if
you do not fall, you laugh, and even dance, perhaps—if you can
get some music—by the camp fire. It is a scene of this description
which I wish to describe to-day. This morning it came
back to my memory in such vivid colours that I thought, if I
could paint it, some of my readers would be interested. It
took place in autumn of the gay year 1861, when Johnston
and Beauregard were holding the lines of Centreville against
McClellan; and when Stuart, that pearl of cavaliers, was in
command of the front, which he guarded with his cavalry. In
their camps at Centreville, the infantry and artillery of the
army quietly enjoyed the bad weather which forbade all military
movements; but the cavalry, that “eye and ear” of an army,
were still in face of the enemy, and had constant skirmishes
below Fairfax, out toward Vienna, and along the front near the
little hamlet of Annandale.

How well I remember all those scenes! and I think if I had
space I could tell some interesting stories of that obstinate petite
guerre of picket fighting—how the gray and blue coats fought for
the ripe fruit in an orchard just between them, all a winter's
afternoon; how Farley waylaid, with three men, the whole column
of General Bayard, and attacked it; and how a brave boy fell one
day in a fight of pickets, and was brought back dead, wrapped
in the brilliant oil-cloth which his sister took from her piano
and had sent to him to sleep upon.

But these recollections would not interest you as they interest
me. They fade, and I come back to my immediate subject—
a visit to General “Jeb Stuart” at his headquarters, near

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Fairfax Court-House, where, in this December of 1861, I saw the gay
cavalier and his queer surroundings.

Stuart was already famous from his raids against General Patterson
in the Valley. He had harassed that commander so persistently—
driving in his pickets, getting in rear of his camps,
and cutting off his foraging parties—that Johnston said of him:
“He is worse than a yellow-jacket—they no sooner brush him off
than he lights back again.” Indefatigable in reconnoissance,
sleepless in vigilance, possessed of a physical strength which
defied fatigue and enabled him to pass whole days and nights in
the saddle, Stuart became the evil genius of the invading column;
and long afterwards, when transferred to the West, General
Johnston wrote to him: “How can I eat, sleep, or rest in peace,
without you upon the outpost!” From the Valley he came to
Manassas, charged the Zouaves there, and then was made a Brigadier-General
and put in command of the cavalry of the army
which held the front toward Alexandria. It is at this time,
December, 1861, that I present him to the reader.

Go back with me to that remote period, and you shall have
no fancy sketch, or “dignified” picture of a General commanding,
but the actual portrait of the famous General “Jeb Stuart”
in the midst of his military household.

I found the cavalry headquarters at an old house known as
Mellen's, but officially as “Camp Qui Vive,” between Centreville
and Fairfax Court-House.

It was a day of December; the sun shone brightly, the frosty
airs cut the cheek. The house was bare and bleak; everything
about it “looked like work.” Horses were picketed to the
fences and trees, couriers went and came with jingling spurs and
clanking sabres, and the bugle sounded the gay “stable-call.”
Before the door, the red battle-flag, just adopted, ripples in the
wind; and not far from it you see the grim muzzle of a Blakely
gun, for Stuart is devoted to artillery, and fights it whenever he

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can. You may regard that gun as a somewhat unusual feature
of a cavalry camp upon the outpost, but the sentinel placed over
it to guard it is still queerer. It is nothing less than an enormous
raccoon—black, wary, with snarling teeth, and eyes full of
“fight!” Look at him for a moment as you pass. He is tied
by a rope around his neck to the trail by the lunettes, and roosts
serenely on the pintal-hook. When he stretches his rope he can
run over the rings for the trail handspike and the prolonge, to
the cascabel and brass base, for the pendulum hausse. His natural
line of sight, however, is between the spokes of the limberwheels,
and he has a box to go in when he is tired.

The sentinel is evidently aware of his duty, for he snaps at
everybody. You will find, when General Stuart comes out
laughing to show him to you, that his owner regards him as the
pearl of sentinels, the paragon of “coons.”

It was sunset as I entered, and amid a gay group I saw the
young General of cavalry. Fancy a man of low stature and
athletic form, with an enormous brown beard; a huge moustache,
ready to curl with laughter; a broad and lofty forehead; an eye,
blue, brilliant, and penetrating as that of the eagle. This figure
was clad in a gray cavalry uniform, top-boots with small bright
spurs; and on a chair lay his sabre and pistol, beside the brown
felt hat looped up and adorned with a black feather.

In this man who wrote away busily at his desk, or, throwing
one leg carelessly over the arm of his chair, turned to utter some
jest or break out in some snatch of song, you could discern enormous
physical strength—a vigour of constitution which made him
a veritable war-machine. This person, it was plain, cared nothing
for the exhausting work which breaks down other men; could
live in the saddle, and was ever ready for a march, a raid, a
charge—anything. Young—he was then but twenty-seven—
ardent, ambitious, gay, jovial, of immense unbounded animal
spirits, with that clear, blue eye whose glance defies all peril, a
seat in the saddle, and a hand for the rein and the sabre unsurpassed,
Stuart was truly a splendid machine in magnificent
order, and plainly asked nothing better than to “clash against
his foe” and either fall or conquer. All this was evident in the

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man before me, with that bronzed cheek, athletic figure, and eye
ready to fill full with laughter, or flash at the thought of battle.
In Stuart I saw a cavalier whom Rupert would have made his
bosom friend, and counted on to charge the pikes of the Ironsides,
and “die for King Charles” without a murmur.

Gayest of the gay was Stuart's greeting, and in five minutes
he had started up, put on his hat, and was showing me his
Blakely gun, then a recent acquisition. His satisfaction at the
ferocious snarling of his “coon” was immense; the incorruptible
fidelity of that black sentinel plainly charmed him, and he
made the place echo with his laughter.

I was truly sorry to hear afterwards that this animal, so
trusted and admired—who had at last become like a member of
the staff—betrayed a low dissatisfaction at short rations, and
gnawing in two the rope which confined him, actually deserted,
and was never more seen!

As night fell we reëntered the house; a table was brought
into the bare room for supper; and then to my astonishment—
enter two ladies! I thought the house entirely unoccupied
except by the gay cavalier and his “following;” but here was a
delegation from the fairer half of humanity. Who were they?
How did they come there? How did that little flower of seventeen,
with the rosy cheeks and the soft, blue eyes, come to bloom
on this hot surface of war, amid the rattle of spurs and sabres?

All these questions were speedily answered by General Stuart.
The beautiful girl of seventeen, and her grim, irate companion,
an elderly lady, were “prisoners of war!” On the preceding
evening they had—after making vain applications for a pass—
attempted to “flank the pickets” of Stuart, and steal through
his lines to Alexandria. Now, as General McClellan was sojourning
with a large escort near that place, and would doubtless be
glad to ascertain a number of things in relation to Beauregard,
Stuart had refused the pass. When the fugitives attempted to
elude his pickets they were caught, forwarded to headquarters,
and there they were.

The young lady was smiling, the elder frowning terribly.
The one evidently admired the gallant Stuart, with his bright,

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blue eye and floating plume, regarding the whole affair as a
romantic adventure, to be enjoyed, not regretted; the other as
plainly resented the liberty taken with her movements, and was
determined to preserve a grim, forbidding, and hostile attitude—
that of the martyr overwhelmed, but defiant to the last. I saw
all this at a glance, and then I understood as plainly, in a very
few moments, that General Stuart had determined to charm
away, if possible, the evil spirit of hostility in the hearts of his
fair prisoners, and reconcile them to their fate.

He lost no time in this hospitable work. It was delightful,
and laughable too, to watch him. Never did gallant cavalier
demean himself with more profound and respectful courtesy,
with which, however, was mingled that easy off-hand fun which
never left Stuart. In the first advance he had been repulsed.
The ladies had been up-stairs when I arrived, and the General
had sent up his compliments: “Would they come down to supper?”
The reply was, “No, I thank you; we are not hungry.”
Whereupon that politest of Marylanders, Captain Tiernan Brien,
A.A.G., was dispatched—assault number two—and, under the
effect of his blandishments, the fair enemy gave way. They
appeared, the young lady blushing and smiling; the elder stern
and stormy. Stuart received them, as I have said, with charming
courtesy and frankness; compelled them to take part in his
supper, and then, although, as very soon appeared, he had a
great deal of work to do, did not suffer them to depart to their
room.

They were not to be allowed to mope there all the winter
evening. Music, dance, and song were to while away the hours—
so Stuart sent for three members of his military household,
and they soon appeared. All were black. The first was an
accomplished performer on the guitar; the second gifted with
the faculty of producing in his throat the exactest imitation of
every bird of the forest; and the third was a mighty master of
the back-step, viz. an old Virginia “breakdown.”

Upon their appearance the “performances commenced!”

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Behold the scene now, reader, as I looked at it, on that evening
of December in 1861. We are in a bleak room, with no
furniture but a desk, a chair, and a camp couch. At the desk
sits Stuart, writing away with immense rapidity, and stopping
now and then to hum a song. On the couch, near the fire, are
the ladies—the younger smiling, the elder frowning. Around
stand the staff, and at the door are the laughing faces of couriers,
who look on and listen. In front of them stand the sable musicians,
and the great performer of the breakdown—ebon-hued,
dilapidated in costume, awaiting orders, and approaching the performance
with serious and unmistakable satisfaction.

Stuart calls out from his desk, without turning his head, and
the process of charming away the evil spirit commences. The
guitar is played by the General's body-servant Bob, a young
mulatto of dandified appearance—the air, indeed, of a lady-killer—
and an obvious confidence in his own abilities to delight,
if not instruct and improve, his audience. Bob laboriously tunes
his instrument; gazes thoughtfully at the ceiling, as he absently
“picks upon the string;” and then commences singing the
popular air, “Listen to the Mocking-Bird.” He is accompanied
in the chorus by the sable ventriloquist, who imitates all the
feathered tribe in his throat; and lo! as you listen, the room
seems full of mocking-birds; the air is alive with the gay carol
of robins, larks, jay-birds, orioles; the eyes of the ventriloquist
roll rapturously like balls of snow against a wall of charcoal,
and the guitar keeps up its harmonious accompaniment.

The young lady listens and her eyes dance. Her cheeks grow
more rosy, her smiles brighter; even her elderly companion relaxes
somewhat from her rigidly hostile expression, and pays
attention to the music. The “Mocking-Bird” ends, and is succeeded
by the plaintive “Alabama! Alabama!”—the guitar
still thrumming, the ventriloquist still accompanying the music
with his bird-notes. Other songs succeed, and then General
Stuart turns round with a laugh and calls for a breakdown.

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Thereupon the dilapidated African, who has up to this time remained
motionless, advances into the arena, dropping his hat
first at the door. Bob strikes up a jig upon his guitar, the ventriloquist
claps, and the great performer of the breakdown
commences his evolutions, first upon the heel-tap, then upon the
toe. His anties are grand and indescribable. He leaps, he
whirls, he twists and untwists his legs until the crowd at the
door grows wild with admiration. The guitar continues to roar
and Stuart's laughter mingles with it; the ventriloquist not only
claps with ardour, but also imitates his favourite songsters. The
dancer's eyes roll gorgeously, his steps grow more rapid, he executes
unheard of figures. Finally a frenzy seems to seize him;
the mirth grows fast and furious; the young lady laughs outright
and seems about to clap her hands. Even the elder relaxes
into an unmistakable smile; and as the dancer disappears with a
bound through the door, the guitar stops playing, and Stuart's
laughter rings out gay and jovial, the grim lips open and she says:

“You rebels do seem to enjoy yourselves!”

These were the exact words of the lady, reader, and I think I
can recall a few words of General Stuart, too. He had been
busily engaged with his official papers all this time, at his desk—
for he never permitted pleasure to interfere with business—and
the gay scene going on in the apartment did not seem to disturb
him in the least degree. Indeed, upon this, as upon many other
occasions, I could see that music of any description aroused his
mind, and was an assistance to him—the banjo, singing, anything—
and by its aid now he had hurried through his work.
Thereupon he rose, and approached the ladies, with gay smiles
and inquiries, if they were amused:

“They had heard his musicians; would the ladies now like
to see something which might interest them?”

Irresistible appeal to that sentiment which is said to be the
weakness of the fair sex—curiosity!

“They would like very much to see what the General spoke
of;” and thereupon Stuart pointed to a coat and waistcoat hanging
upon a nail on the wall over their heads. The clothes were
torn by a bullet and bloody.

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The young lady looked, and her smiles all disappeared.

“What is that, General?” said the elder.

“It is the coat and waistcoat of a poor boy of my command,
madam,” replied Stuart, “who was shot and killed on picket the
other day—young Chichester, from just below Fairfax Court-House.
He was a brave fellow, and I am keeping these clothes
to send to his mother.”

“Poor boy!” from the young lady; and from the elder a
look of unmistakable sympathy.

Stuart then gave an account of the fight; and his voice, as he
spoke of the death of the boy, was no longer gay—it was serious,
feeling, and had in it something delightfully kind and
sweet. Under that gay exterior of the young cavalier there was
a warm and earnest heart—as beneath the stern eye of the man
was all the tenderness of a woman. It was plain to me on that
evening, and plainer afterwards when a thorough acquaintance
with the great leader made me fully cognizant of his real character.
There was something more charming even than the
gaiety of Stuart—it was the low, sad tone in which he spoke of
some dead friend, the tear in the bright blue eye which dimmed
its fire at the thought of some face that was gone.

So, between mirth and pathos—between the rattling guitar
and the bloody coat of the dead boy—the ladies were fairly conquered.
When Stuart gallantly accompanied them to the door,
and bowed as they retired, the elderly lady smiled, and I think
the younger gave him a glance full of thanks and admiration.

But stern duty required still that the fair fugitives should be
further cabined and confined. Stuart could not release them;
he must send them to Centreville, by standing order from General
Johnston, and thither they were accordingly dispatched on
the next morning after breakfast. The General had at his headquarters—
procured where, I know not—an old carriage. To
this two horses were harnessed; a son of Erin from the couriers

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was detailed as a driver, and the General requested me to accompany
the ladies and conduct them to General Johnston.

Then he exhibited his gallantry after the military fashion.
The ladies had entered the carriage; the pretty blushing face of
the young damsel of seventeen was seen at the window, her
little white hand hung out of the carriage. Stuart took it and
pressed it warmly to his lips—a slight exclamation, a hand withdrawn
hastily, and a little laugh, as the young lady's face disappeared—
and the carriage moved on. I mounted and got
ready to follow; but first I turned to Stuart, who was standing
with the bright December sunshine on his laughing face, looking
after the carriage.

“General,” I said, “will you answer me one or two questions
before I leave you?”

“Well, ask them—I'll try.”

“Why did you put yourself out so much, when you were so
busy last night, and get up that frolie?”

“Don't you understand?” was his laughing reply. “When
those ladies arrived they were mad enough with me to bite my
head off, and I determined to put them in good humour before
they left me. Well, I have done it; they are my good friends
at this moment.”

“You are right; now for my other question. I saw you kiss
that pretty little hand of the young lady as it lay in the carriage
window; why didn't you kiss that of the elder, too?”

Stuart approached my horse, and leaning his arm upon the
mane, said in low tones, as though he was afraid of being overheard:

“Would you like me to tell you?”

“Yes,” was my reply.

“The old lady's hand had a glove upon it!” was his confidential
whisper; and this was followed by a real explosion, in
which the gay cavalier seemed to find vent for all the pent-up
laughter which had been struggling in him since the preceding
evening.

I accompanied the ladies to Centreville, and they did not
utter a single unfriendly word upon the way in relation to

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Stuart. Indeed, the young lady seemed altogether charmed with
the whole adventure, and appeared to have warmly welcomed
the incident which gave her a sight of that black plume, those
brilliant, laughing eyes. If this page should meet her eye, will
she pardon me if I say: “Fair flower of seventeen, you may
have drawn your hand away that day, and thought the kiss
imprinted on it a liberty; but do not regret it now, for those
lips belonged to the `flower of cavaliers,' and to-day they are
cold in death!”

I have made this little sketch of Stuart at “Camp Qui Vive”
for those who like the undress picture of a famous man, rather
than the historic bust—cold, still, and lifeless. Have you not
seen, reader, there upon the outpost as you followed me, the gay
face of Stuart; heard his laughter as he called for the “Mocking
Bird;” and listened to his sad tones as he pointed to the
bloody coat, and told of the brave boys shot on picket? If you
cannot see those figures and hear the accents, it is the fault of
the writer, and perhaps his merriment is not gay. Always those
long-dead scenes came to him with a sort of dreamy sadness—
the mirth is mournful, and the laughter dies away.

No more at “Camp Qui Vive.” or any other camp, will the
laugh of Stuart ring out joyous and free. He is gone—but lives
still here upon the soil of Virginia, and will live for ever!

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I NEVER pass the little village of Verdiersville, on the road
from Orange Court-House to Chancellorsville, without casting a
glance upon a small house—the first upon the right as you enter
the hamlet from the west.

There is nothing remarkable in the appearance of this house;
and unless some especial circumstance directed to it your attention,
you would pass it by completely without notice. A small
wooden mansion, such as every village contains; a modest, rather
dilapidated porch; a contracted yard in front, and an ordinary
fence of narrow palings, through which a narrow gate gives
access to the road—there is the whole. Now why should this
most commonplace and uninteresting of objects cause the present
writer, whenever he passes it, and however weary he may be, to
turn his horse's head in the direction of the little gate, pause on
his way, and remain for some moments gazing in silence at the
dilapidated porch, the tumble-down fence, and the narrow gateway,
yawning now wide open, gateless? Because the sight of
this house recalls a scene of which it was the theatre about three
years ago—that is to say in August, 1862. It was here that
Stuart had one of those narrow escapes which were by no means
unusual in his adventurous career, and which will make his
life, when time has mellowed the events of this epoch, the chosen
subject of those writers dealing in the romance of war.

Ah! those “romances of the war!” The trifling species will
come first, in which the Southern leaders will be made to talk an

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incredible gibberish, and figure in the most tremendous adventures.
We shall then see, my dear reader, the august form of
Lee, dressed in that splendid new uniform which he always wore,
riding that swift Arabian, blazing with his golden caparison, and
exclaiming, “Behold yonder battery, my men! Charge on it!
Sweep the foeman from your path!” The gay and elegant form
of Stonewall Jackson will be seen as he leads his cavalry, and
swears in the charge; Stuart will give his cautious counsel to fall
back; and we shall have, in the yellow-covered pamphlets, a
truthful picture of the war. But then will come the better order
of things, when writers like Walter Scott will conscientiously
collect the real facts, and make some new “Waverley” or
“Legend of Montrose.” For these, and not for the former class,
I propose to set down here an incident in the life of the great
commander of the Southern cavalry, of which he told me all the
particulars, for I was not present.

It was about the middle of August, 1862, and Jackson, after
deciding the fate of the day at Cold Harbour, and defeating
General Pope at Cedar Mountain, was about to make his great
advance upon Manassas with the remainder of the army. In all
such movements Stuart's cavalry took its place upon the flanks,
and no sooner had the movement begun, than, leaving his headquarters
in the grassy yard of the old Hanover Court-House
where Patrick Henry made his famous speech against the parsons,
Stuart hastened to put his column in motion for the lower waters
of the Rapidan.

Such was the situation of affairs when the little incident I propose
to relate took place. Fitz Lee's brigade was ordered to
move by way of Verdiersville to Raccoon Ford, and take position
on Jackson's right; and General Stuart hastened forward, attended
only by a portion of his staff, toward Verdiersville, where
he expected to be speedily joined by “General Fitz.”

Stuart reached the little hamlet on the evening, I believe, of
the 16th of August, and selecting the small house which I have
described for his temporary headquarters, awaited the approach
of his column.

Half an hour, an hour passed, and nothing was heard of the

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expected cavalry. General Stuart's position was by no means
a safe one, as the event showed. He was ten miles distant
from any succour in case of an attack. The country around
Verdiersville was known to be full of prowling detachments of
Federal cavalry; and the daring cavalier, upon whose skill and
energy so much depended at that crisis, might be quietly picked
up by some scouting party of the enemy, and carried as a rich
prize to General Pope. Stuart was, however, well accustomed
throughout his adventurous career to take such risks; they
even seemed to possess an irresistible charm to him, and he prepared
to spend the night, if necessary, in this exposed spot. He
accordingly tied his horse to the fence, the bridle having been
taken from his mouth to allow the animal to feed, spread his
gray riding-cape upon the porch of the little house, and prepared
to go to sleep. First, however, he called Major Fitz Hugh, of
his staff, and sent him back about a mile down the road to look
out for General Fitz Lee. The major was to go to the mouth of
the Richmond and Antioch Church road, await General Fitz's
arrival, and communicate further orders. Having arranged this,
Stuart lay down with his staff and they all went to sleep.

Let us now accompany Major Fitz Hugh, an old (though still
youthful and alert) cavalryman—used to scouting, reconnoitring,
and dealing generally with Federal cavalry. The major took
a courier with him, and riding down the road about a mile in
the direction of Chancellorsville, soon reached the mouth of the
Antioch Church road—a branch of that most devious, puzzling,
be wildering of all highways, the famed “Catharpin road.” Major
Fitz Hugh found at his stopping-place an old deserted house,
and as this house was a very good “picket post” from which
to observe the road by which General Fitz Lee must come, the
major came to a halt at the old rattle-trap—forlornest of abandoned
wayside inns—and there established his headquarters.
An hour, two hours passed—there was no sign of General Fitz;
and the major, who had ridden far and was weary, tied his handsome
sorrel near, directed the courier to keep a sharp look-out,
and, entering the house, lay down on the floor to take a short
nap.

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Such resolutions, under such circumstances, generally end in
a good night's sleep. About daylight Major Fitz Hugh was
awakened by a noise of hoofs on the road without, and, rising,
he went to meet General Fitz Lee. The first circumstance which
induced him to change his views of the “situation” was the
sight of a swarm of blue-coated cavalrymen around the house,
one of whom had untied and was leading off in triumph his
glossy sorrel! A dozen others, who had arrived too late to
secure the prize, were uttering imprecations on their luck.

A glance took in the whole scene—Major Fitz Hugh found
himself surrounded by Federal cavalry, and a party soon burst
into the house, and, with pistols at his breast, ordered him to
surrender. The major was furious at this contretemps, and
glanced around for his weapons. He clutched his pistol and
cocked it; but his wrist was immediately seized, and an attempt
made to wrench the weapon from his grasp. The major retorted
by twisting his hand, and firing one or two barrels, but without
result. They then rushed upon him, threw him down; his arms
were wrested from him in a trice, and he was conducted to
the commanding officer of the force, at the head of his column
without.

The officer was a colonel, and asked Major Fitz Hugh a great
number of questions. He was evidently lost. The major
declined replying to any of them, and now his fears were painfully
excited for General Stuart. If the column should take
the direction of Verdiersville there was every reason to fear that
the General would be surprised and captured. Meanwhile Major
Fitz Hugh had taken a seat upon a fence, and as the column
began to move he was ordered to get up and walk. This he
declined doing, and the altercation was still proceeding, when
an officer passed and the major complained of having his horse
taken from him. “I am accustomed to ride, not to walk,” he
said; and this view of the subject seemed to impress the Federal
officer, who, either from courtesy or to secure a mounted guide,
had his horse brought and returned to him for the nonce. The
major mounted and rode to the front amid “There goes the
rebel major!” “Ain't he a fine dressed fellow?” “Don't he

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ride proud?” sounds soothing and pleasant to the captured
major, who was dressed in a fine new roundabout with full gold
braid.

But his thoughts suddenly became far from pleasant. The
head of the cavalry column had turned toward Verdiersville, only
a mile distant, and General Stuart's danger was imminent. The
courier had also been captured; no warning of his peril could
be got to the General; and worse than all, he would doubtless
take the column for that of General Fitz Lee, which was to
come by this very road, and thus be thrown completely off his
guard. A more terrible contretemps could not have occurred
than the Major's capture, and he saw no earthly means of giving
the alarm. He was riding beside the colonel commanding, who
had sent for him, and was thus forced to witness, without taking
part in it, the scene about to be enacted.

Let us return now to the small party asleep on the porch of
the house in Verdiersville.

They did not awake until day, when Stuart was aroused by
the noise of hoofs upon the road, and concluding that General
Fitz Lee had arrived, rose from the floor of the porch, and,
without his hat, walked to the little gate. The column was not
yet discernible clearly in the gray of morning; but in some
manner Stuart's suspicions were excited. To assure himself of
the truth, he requested Captain Mosby and Lieutenant Gibson,
who were with him, to ride forward and see what command was
approaching.

The reception which the two envoys met with, speedily decided
the whole question. They had scarcely approached
within pistol-shot of the head of the column, when they were
fired upon, and a detachment spurred forward from the cavalry,
calling upon them to halt, and firing upon them as they retreated.
They were rapidly pursued, and in a few moments the
Federal cavalry had thundered down upon the house, in front
of which General Stuart was standing.

-- --

[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]

-- --

STUART'S ESCAPE FROM THE FEDERAL CAVALRY.—Page 209.
“Stuart threw himself upon his unbridled horse, seized the halter, and digging his spurs into his sides, cleared
the pailings, and galloped off amid a hot fire.”
[figure description] Illustration page, which depicts General Stuart's escape from the Federal Cavalry. Stuart is on his horse, which is leaping over a log fence outside of a large cabin. In the right foreground is a group of Federal Cavalry on horseback, approaching the house and shooting at Stuart.[end figure description]

-- 209 --

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[figure description] Page 209.[end figure description]

The General had to act promptly. There was no force within
many miles of him; nothing wherewith to make resistance;
flight or instant capture were the alternatives, and even flight
seemed impossible. The Federal horsemen had rushed at full
gallop upon the house; the horses of the General and staff were
unbridled, and the only means of exit from the yard seemed to
be the narrow gate in front, scarcely wide enough for a mounted
man to pass, and right in face of the enemy. In addition to
this, the little party had just been aroused; the General had
even left his hat and cape upon the floor of the porch, so complete
was the feeling of security; and when Mosby was fired on,
he was standing bare-headed at the gate.

What followed all took place in an instant. The General and
his party leaped on their horses, some of which had been hastily
bridled, and sought for means of escape. One of the staff officers
darted through the narrow gate with his bridle-reins hanging
down beneath his horse's feet, and disappeared up the road
followed by a shower of balls. The rest took the fence. Stuart,
bare-headed, and without his cape, which still lay on the porch,
throw himself upon his unbridled horse, seized the halter, and
digging his spurs into his sides, cleared the palings, and galloped
off amid a hot fire. He went on until he reached a clump of
woods near the house, when he stopped to reconnoitre.

The enemy did not at once follow, and from his point of observation
the General had the mortification of witnessing the capture
of his hat and cape. The Federal cavalrymen dashed up
to the porch and seized these articles, which they bore off in
triumph—raising the brown hat, looped up with a golden star,
and decorated with its floating black feather, upon the points of
their sabres, and laughing at the escapade which they had thus
occasioned.

Major Fitz Hugh, at the head of the main column, and beside
the Federal Colonel, witnessed all, and burst into laughter and
sobs, such was his joy at the escape of his General. This attracted
the attention of the Federal officer, who said:

“Major, who was that party?”

“That have escaped?”

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“Yes.”

The Major looked again and saw that, on his fleet “Skylark,”
Stuart was entirely safe by this time, and unable to contain his
triumph, exclaimed:

“Do you really wish to know who that was, Colonel?”

“I do.”

“Well, it was General Stuart and his staff!”

“General Stuart!” exclaimed the officer; “was that General
Stuart?

“Yes, and he has escaped!” cried the overjoyed Major.

“A squadron there!” shouted the Colonel in great excitement;
“pursue that party at once! Fire on them! It is General
Stuart!”

The squadron rushed forward at the word upon the track of
the fugitives to secure their splendid prize; but their advance
did not afford the General much uneasiness. Long experience
had told him that the Federal cavalry did not like woods, and he
knew that they would not venture far for fear of a surprise.
This idea was soon shown to be well founded. The Federal
squadron made a very hot pursuit of the party until they came
to the woods; they then contented themselves with firing and
advancing very cautiously. Soon even this ceased, and they
rapidly returned to Verdiersville, from which place the whole
column hastily departed in the direction of the Rapidan. The
Colonel carried off Major Fitz Hugh to serve as a guide, for he
had lost his way, and stumbled thus upon Verdiersville. If you
wish to laugh, my dear reader, go and see Major Fitz Hugh, and
ask him what topographical information he gave the Federal
commandant. It very nearly caused the capture of his command;
but he got back safe to Pope's army, and took our friend,
the Major, with him.

Such was Stuart's narrow escape at Verdiersville. He succeeded
in cluding them, but he lost his riding cape and hat,
which the enemy had seized upon, and this rankled in the mind
of the General, prompting him to take his revenge at the earliest
practicable moment.

That moment soon came. Just one week afterwards, when

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General Lee had pressed on to the Rappahannock, and General
Pope had hastily retired before him, Stuart made an expedition
to the enemy's rear, and struck the Orange and Alexandria Railroad
at Catlett's.

It was one dark and stormy night that the attack was made—the column plunging forward at full speed, through ditches and
ravines, without light enough to see their hands before them;
and by a singular chance Stuart came on Pope's headquarters,
which was at Catlett's. The Federal commander fled with his
staff, and Stuart captured all his official papers containing the
fullest information of his strength, position, and designs. Those
papers were transmitted to General Lee, and probably determined
him to send Jackson to Pope's rear.

In addition to the papers Stuart made a capture which was
personally soothing to his feelings. In his flight, General Pope
left his coat behind! and when the leader of the Southern cavalry,
so recently despoiled of his cape and bat, left Catlett's, he
bore off with him the dress uniform coat of the Federal commander,
who had prophetically announced to his troops upon
taking command, that “disaster and shame lurked in the rear.”

The account was thus balanced. Catlett's had avenged Verdiersville!

And so, my dear reader, you know why I always glance at
that little house in the village as I pass. The dilapidated porch
is still there, where Stuart slept, and the fence which he leaped
still stands, as he pointed it out to me one day, when we rode
by, describing with gay laughter his adventure. All these inanimate
objects remain, but the noble figure which is associated
with the place will never more be seen in the flesh—the good
knight has been unseated by a stronger arm than that of man.
He passed unscathed through this and a thousand other perils;
but at last came the fatal bullet. At the Yellow Tavern he fell
in front of his line, cheering on his men to the last, and on a
beautiful slope of Hollywood Cemetery, above the city which
he died defending, he “sleeps well.”

Thus passed away the “flower of cavaliers,” the pearl of chivalry.
Dying, he did not leave his peer.

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This sketch, may it please the reader, will not contain any
“historic events.” Not a single piece of artillery will roar in
it—not a single volley of musketry will sound—no life will be
lost from the very beginning to the end of it. It aims only to
draw a familiar outline of a famous personage as he worked his
work in the early months of the war, and the muse of
comedy, not tragedy, will hold the pen. For that brutal thing
called war contains much of comedy; the warp and woof of the
fabric is of strangely mingled threads—blood and merriment,
tears and laughter follow each other, and are mixed in a manner
quite bewildering! To-day it is the bright side of the tapestry
I look at—my aim is to sketch some little trifling scenes “upon
the outpost.”

To do so, it will be necessary to go back to the early years
of the late war, and to its first arena, the country between Manassas
and the Potomac. Let us, therefore, leave the present
year, 1866, of which many persons are weary, and return to
1861, of which many never grow tired talking—1861, with its
joy, its laughter, its inexperience, and its confiding simplicity,
when everybody thought that the big battle on the shores of
Bull's Run had terminated the war at one blow.

At that time the present writer was attached to Beauregard's
or Johnson's “Army of the Potomac,” and had gone with the

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advance force of the army, after Manassas, to the little village
of Vienna—General Bonham commanding the detachment of a
brigade or so. Here we duly waited for an enemy who did not
come; watched his mysterious balloons hovering above the
trees, and regularly “turned out” whenever one picket (gray)
fired into another (gray).

This was tiresome, and one day in August I mounted my
horse and set forward toward Fairfax Court-House, intent on
visiting that gay cavalry man, Colonel “Jeb Stuart,” who had
been put in command of the front toward Annandale. A pleasant
ride through the summer woods brought me to the picturesque
little village; and at a small mansion about a mile east
of the town, I came upon the cavalry headquarters.

The last time I had seen the gay young Colonel he was
stretched upon his red blanket under a great oak by the roadside,
holding audience with a group of country people around
him—honest folks who came to ascertain by what unheard-of
cruelty they were prevented from passing through his pickets to
their homes. The laughing, bantering air of the young commandant
of the outpost that day had amused me much. I well
remembered now his keen eye, and curling moustache, and cavalry
humour—thus it was a good companion whom I was about
to visit, not a stiff and silent personage, weighed down with
“official business.” Whether this anticipation was realized or
not, the reader will discover.

The little house in which Colonel Jeb Stuart had taken up his
residence, was embowered in foliage. I approached it through
a whole squadron of horses, picketed to the boughs; and in
front of the portico a new blood-red battle flag, with its blue St.
Andrew's cross and white stars, rippled in the wind. Bugles
sounded, spurs clashed, sabres rattled, as couriers or officers,
scouts or escorts of prisoners came and went; huge-bearded
cavalrymen awaited orders, or the reply to dispatches—and from
within came song and laughter from the young commander.
Let me sketch him as he then appeared—the man who was to
become so famous as the chief of cavalry of General Lee's army;
who was to inaugurate with the hand of a master, a whole new

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system of cavalry tactics—to invent the raid which his opponents
were to imitate with such good results—and to fall, after
a hundred hot fights in which no bullet ever touched him, near
the scene of his first great “ride” around the army of McClellan.

As he rose to meet me, I took in at a glance every detail of
his appearance. His low athletic figure was clad in an old blue
undress coat of the United States Army, brown velveteen pantaloons
worn white by rubbing against the saddle, high cavalry
boots with small brass spurs, a gray waistcoat, and carelessly
tied cravat. On the table at his side lay a Zouave cap, covered
with a white havelock—an article then very popular—and
beside this two huge yellow leathern gauntlets, reaching nearly
to the elbow, lay ready for use. Around his waist, Stuart wore
a black leather belt, from which depended on the right a holster
containing his revolver, and on the left a light, keen sabre, of
French pattern, with a basket hilt. The figure thus was that
of a man “every inch a soldier,” and the face was in keeping
with the rest. The broad and lofty forehead—on of the finest
I have ever seen—was bronzed by sun and wind; the eyes were
clear, piercing, and of an intense and dazzling blue; the nose
prominent, with large and mobile nostrils; and the mouth was
completely covered by a heavy brown moustache, which swept
down and mingled with a huge beard of the same tint, reaching
to his breast. Such was the figure of the young commandant,
as he appeared that day, in the midst of the ring of bugles and
the clatter of arms, there in the centre of his web upon the outpost.
It was the soldier ready for work at any instant; prepared
to mount at the sound of the trumpet, and lead his squadrons
in person, like the hardy, gallant man-at-arms he was.

After friendly greetings and dinner on the lid of a camp-chest,
where that gay and good companion, Captain Tiernan Brien, did
the honours, as second in command, Stuart proposed that we
should ride into Fairfax Court-House and see a lady prisoner of
his there. When this announcement of a “lady prisoner” drew
forth some expressions of astonishment, he explained with a
laugh that the lady in question had been captured a few

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days before in suspicious proximity to the Confederate lines,
which she appeared to be reconnoitring; and that she was a
friend of the “other faction” was proved by the circumstance
that when captured she was riding a Federal Colonel's horse,
with army saddle, holsters, and equipments complete. While
on a little reconnoissance, all by herself, in this guise she had
fallen into Stuart's net; had been conducted to his headquarters;
assigned by him to the care of a lady resident at the Court-House,
until he received orders in relation to her from the army headquarters—
and this lady we were now about to visit.

We set out for the village, Stuart riding his favourite “Skylark,”—
that good sorrel which had carried him through all the
scouting of the Valley, and was captured afterwards near Sharpsburg.
This horse was of extraordinary toughness, and I remember
one day his master said to me, “Ride as hard as you choose,
you can't tire Skylark.” On this occasion the good steed was
in full feather; and as I am not composing a majestic historic
narrative, it will be permitted me to note that his equipments
were a plain “McClellan tree,” upon which a red blanket was
confined by a gaily coloured surcingle: a bridle with single
head-stall, light curb-bit, and single rein. Mounted upon his
sorrel, Stuart was thoroughly the cavalry-man, and he went on
at a rapid gallop, humming a song as he rode.

We found the lady-prisoner at a hospitable house of the village,
and there was little in her appearance or manner to indicate the
“poor captive,” nor did she exhibit any “freezing terrour,” as
the romance writers say, at sight of the young militaire. At
that time some amusing opinions of the Southerners were prevelent
at the North. The “rebels” were looked upon pretty much
as monsters of a weird and horrible character—a sort of “anthropophagi,”
Cyclops-eyed, and with heads that “did grow beneath
their shoulders.” Short rations, it was popularly supposed, compelled
them to devour the bodies of their enemies; and to fall
into their bloody clutch was worse than death. This view of
the subject, however, plainly did not possess the captive here.
Her fears, if she had ever had any of the terrible gray people,

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were quite dissipated; and she received us with a nonchalant
smile, and great indifference.

I shall not give the fair dame's name, nor even venture to
describe her person, or conjecture her age—further than to say
that her face was handsome and laughing, her age about twenty-five
or thirty.

The scene which followed was a little comedy, whose gay particulars
it is easier to recall than to describe. It was a veritable
crossing of swords on the arena of Wit, and I am not sure that
the lady did not get the better of it. Her tone of badinage was even more than a match for the gay young officer's—and
of badinage he was a master—but he was doubtless restrained
on the occasion by that perfect good-breeding and courtesy
which uniformly marked his demeanour to the sex, and his fair
adversary had him at a disadvantage. She certainly allowed
her wit and humour to flash like a Damascus blade; and, with
a gay laugh, denounced the rebels as perfect wretches for coercing
her movements. Why, she would like to know, was she
ever arrested? She had only ridden out on a short pleasure
excursion from Alexandria, and now demanded to be permitted
to return thither. “Why was she riding a Federal officer's
horse?” Why, simply because he was one of her friends. If
the Colonel would “please” let her return through his pickets
she would not tell anybody anything—upon her word!

“The Colonel” in question was smiling—probably at the
idea of allowing anything on two feet to pass “through his
pickets” to the enemy. But the impossibility of permitting this
was not the burden of his reply. With that odd “laughter of
the eye” always visible in him when thoroughly amused, he
opposed the lady's return on the ground that he would miss her
society. This he could not think of, and it was not friendly in
her to contemplate leaving him for ever so soon after making his
acquaintance! Then she was losing other pleasant things.
There was Richmond—she would see all the sights of the Confederate
capital; then an agreeable trip by way of Old Point
would restore her to her friends.

Reply of the lady extremely vivacious: She did not wish to

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see the Confederate capital!—she wished to go back to Alexandria!—
straight! She was not auxious to get away from him,
for he had treated her with the very greatest courtesy, and she
should always regard him as her friend. But she wanted to go
back to Alexandria, through the pickets—straight!

That the statement of her friendly regard for the young Colonel
was unaffected, the fair captive afterwards proved. When in
due course of time she was sent by orders from army headquarters
to Richmond, and thence via Old Point to Washington, she
wrote and published an account of her adventures, in which
she denounced the Confederate officials everywhere, including
those at the centre of Rebeldom, as ruffians, monsters, and
tyrants of the deepest dye, but excepted from this sweeping
characterization the youthful Colonel of cavalry, who was the
author of all her woes. So far from complaining of him, she
extolled his kindness, courtesy, and uniform care of her comfort,
declaring that he was “the noblest gentleman she had ever
known.” There was indeed about Colonel Jeb Stuart, as about
Major-General Stuart, a smiling air of courtesy and gallantry,
which made friends for him among the fair sex, even when they
were enemies; and Bayard himself could not have exhibited
toward them more respect and consideration than he did uniformly.
He must have had serious doubts in regard to the
errand of his fair prisoner, so near the Confederate lines, but he
treated her with the greatest consideration; and when he left
her, the bow he made was as low as to the finest “lady in the
land.”

It is possible that the worthy reader may not find as much
entertainment in perusing the foregoing sketch as I do in recalling
the scene to memory. That faculty of memory is a curious
one, and very prone to gather up, like Autolycus, the “unconsidered
trifles” of life. Every trivial incident of the times I
write of comes back now—how Stuart's gay laugh came as he
closed the door, and how he caught up a drum which the enemy
had left behind them in the yard of the mansion, sprang to the
saddle, and set off at a run through the streets of the village,
causing the eyes of the inhabitants to open with astonishment at

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the spectacle of Colonel Stuart running a race, with a drum before
him, singing lustily a camp song as he rode. In a number
of octavo volumes the reader will find an account of the great
career of Major-General Stuart—this was Colonel Jeb Stuart on
the outpost.

And now if the worthy reader is in that idle, unexacting
mood so dear to chroniclers, I beg he will listen while I speak
of another “trifling incident” occurring on the same day, which
had a rather amusing result. In return for the introduction
accorded me to the captive, I offered to make the young Colonel
acquainted with a charming friend of my own, whom I had
known before his arrival at the place; and as he acquiesced with
ready pleasure, we proceeded to a house in the village, where
Colonel Stuart was duly presented to Miss—. The officer
and the young lady very soon thereafter became close friends,
for she was passionately Southern—and a few words will present
succinctly the result.

In the winter of 1862, Colonel Mosby made a raid into Fairfax,
entered the Court-House at night, and captured General
Stoughton and his staff—bringing out the prisoners and a number
of fine horses safely. This exploit of the partisan greatly
enraged the Federal authorities; and Miss—, having been
denounced by Union residents as Mosby's “private friend” and
pilot on the occasion—which Colonel Mosby assured me was an
entire error—she was arrested, her trunks searched, and the
prisoner and her papers conveyed to Washington. Here she
was examined on the charge of complicity in Mosby's raid; but
nothing appeared against her, and she was in a fair way to be
released, when all at once a terrible proof of her guilt was discovered.
Among the papers taken from the young lady's trunk
was found the following document. This was the “damning
record” which left no further doubt of her guilt.

I print the paper verbatim et literatim, suppressing only the full
name of the lady:

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To all Whom it May Concern:

Know Ye, That reposing special confidence in the patriotism,
fidelity, and ability of Antonia J.—, I, James E. B.
Stuart, by virtue of the power vested in me as Brigadier-General
of the Provisional Army of the Confederate States of America,
do hereby appoint and commission her my honorary Aide-de-Camp,
to rank as such from this date. She will be obeyed,
respected, and admired by all true lovers of a noble nature.

“Given under my hand and seal at the Headquarters Cavalry
Brigade, at Camp Beverly, the 7th October, A. D. 1861, and the
first year of our independence.

“J. E. B. Stuart.
“By the General:
“L. Tiernan Brien, A. A. G.”

Such was the fatal document discovered in Miss—'s trunk,
the terrible proof of her treason! The poor girl was committed
to the Old Capitol Prison as a secret commissioned emissary of
the Confederate States Government, was kept for several
months, and when she was released and sent South to Richmond,
where I saw her, she was as thin and white as a ghost—
the mere shadow of her former self.

All that cruelty had resulted from a jest—from the harmless
pleasantry of a brave soldier in those bright October days of
1861!

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Of all human faculties, surely the most curious is the memory.
Capricious, whimsical, illogical, acting ever in accordance with
its own wild will, it loses so many “important events” to retain
the veriest trifles in its deathless clutch! Ask a soldier who
has fought all day long in some world-losing battle, what he remembers
most vividly, and he will tell you that he has well-nigh
forgotten the most desperate charges, but recalls with perfect
distinctness the joy he experienced in swallowing a mouthful of
water from the canteen on the body of a dead enemy.

A trifling incident of the second battle of Manassas remains
in my memory more vividly than the hardest fighting of the
whole day, and I never recall the incident in question without
thinking, too, of De Quincey's singular paper, “A Vision of
Sudden Death.” The reader is probably familiar with the article
to which I refer—a very curious one, and not the least admirable
of those strange leaves, full of thought and fancy, which
the “Opium Eater” scattered among the readers of the last
generation. He was riding on the roof of a stage-coach, when
the vehicle commenced the descent of a very steep hill. Soon
it began moving with mad velocity, the horses became unmanageable,
and it was obvious that if it came in collision with
anything, either it or the object which it struck would be
dashed in pieces. All at once, there appeared in front, on the

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narrow road, a light carriage, in which were seated a young man
and a girl. They either did not realize their danger, or were
powerless to avoid it; and on swept the heavy stage, with its
load of passengers, its piled-up baggage, and its maddened
horses—rushing straight down on the frail vehicle with which it
soon came in collision. It was at the moment when the light
little affair was dashed to pieces, the stage rolling with a wild
crash over the boy and girl, that De Quincey saw in their awestruck
faces that singular expression which he has described by
the phrase, “A Vision of Sudden Death.”

It requires some courage to intrude upon the literary domain
of that great master, the “Opium Eater,” and the comparison
will prove dangerous; but a reader here and there may be interested
in a vision of sudden death which I myself once saw in a
human eye. On the occasion in question, a young, weakminded,
and timid person was instantaneously confronted, without
premonition or suspicion of his danger, with the abrupt
prospect of an ignominious death; and I think the great English
writer would have considered my incident more stirring than
his own.

It was on the morning of August 31, 1862, on the Warrenton
road, in a little skirt of pines, near Cub Run bridge, between
Manassas and Centreville. General Pope, who previously had
“only seen the backs of his enemies,” had been cut to pieces.
The battle-ground which had witnessed the defeat of Scott and
McDowell on the 21st of July, 1861, had now again been swept by
the bloody besom of war; and the Federal forces were once more
in full retreat upon Washington. The infantry of the Southern
army were starved, broken down, utterly exhausted, when they
went into that battle, but they carried everything before them;
and the enemy had disappeared, thundering with their artillery
to cover their retreat. The rest of the work must be done by
the cavalry; and to the work in question the great cavalier
Stuart addressed himself with the energy, dash, and vigour of his
character. The scene, as we went on, was curious. Pushing
across the battle-field—we had slept at “Fairview,” the Conrad
House
on the maps—we saw upon every side the reeking traces

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of the bloody conflict; and as the column went on across Bull
Run, following the enemy on their main line of retreat over the
road from Stonebridge to Centreville, the evidences of “demoralization”
and defeat crowded still more vividly upon the eye.
Guns, haversacks, oil-cloths, knapsacks, abandoned cannon and
broken-down wagons and ambulances,—all the debris of an
army, defeated and hastening to find shelter behind its works—
attracted the attention now, as in July, 1861, when the first “On
to Richmond” was so unfortunate. Prisoners were picked up
on all sides as the cavalry pushed on; their horses, if they were
mounted, were taken possession of; their sabres, guns, and pistols
appropriated with the ease and rapidity of long practice;
and the prisoners were sent in long strings under one or two
mounted men, as a guard, to the rear.

As we approached Cub Run bridge, over which the rear-guard
of the Federal army had just retired, we found by the roadside
a small wooden house used as a temporary hospital. It was full
of dead and wounded; and I remember that the “Hospital steward”
who attended the Federal wounded was an imposing personage.
Portly, bland, “dignified,” elegantly dressed, he was as
splendid as a major-general; nay, far more so than any gray
major-general of the present writer's acquaintance. Our tall and
finely-clad friend yielded up his surplus ambulances with grace
ful ease, asked for further orders; and when soon his own friends
from across Cub Run began to shell the place, philosophically
took his stand behind the frail mansion and “awaited further
developments” with the air of a man who was resigned to the
fortunes of war. Philosophic steward of the portly person! if
you see this page it will bring back to you that lively scene when
the present writer conversed with you and found you so composed
and “equal to the occasion,” even amid the shell and
bullets!

But I am expending too much attention upon my friend the
surgeon, who “held the position” there with such philosophic
coolness. The cavalry, headed by General Stuart, pushed on,
and we were now nearly at Cub Run bridge. The main body
of the enemy had reached Centreville during the preceding

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night, and we could see their white tents in the distance;
but a strong rear-guard of cavalry and artillery had been left
near the bridge, and as we now advanced, mounted skirmishers
from the Federal side forded the stream, and very gallantly came
to meet us. On our side, sharpshooters were promptly deployed—
then came the bang of carbines—then Stuart's Horse Artillery
galloped up, under Pelham, and a “rear-guard affair” began.
Stuart formed his column for a charge, and had just begun to
move, when the Federal skirmishers were seen retiring; a dense
smoke rose from Cub Run bridge, and suddenly the enemy's
artillery on a knoll beyond opened their grim mouths. The first
shot they fired was admirable. It fell plump into a squadron
of cavalry—between the files as they were ranged side by side
in column of twos—and although it burst into a hundred pieces,
did not wound man or horse. The Horse Artillery under Pelham
replied to the fire of the opposing guns; an animated artillery
duel commenced, and the ordinary routine began.

There is a French proverb which declares that although you
may know when you set out on a journey, you do not know
when you will arrive. Those who journey through the fine land
of memory are, of all travellers, the most ignorant upon that
score, and are apt to become the most unconscionable vagarists.
Memory refuses to recall one scene or incident without recalling
also a hundred others which preceded or followed it. “You
people,” said John Randolph to a gentleman of an extensive
clan, with which the eccentric orator was always at war, “you
people all take up each other's quarrels. You are worse than a
pile of fish-hooks. If I try to grasp one, I raise the whole
bunch.” To end my preface, and come to my little incident. I
was sitting on my horse near General Stuart, who had put in the
skirmishers, and was now superintending the fire of his artillery,
when a cavalry-man rode up and reported that they had just
captured a deserter.

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“Where is he?” was Stuart's brief interrogatory.

“Coming yonder, General.”

“How do you know he is a deserter?”

“One of my company knew him when he joined our army.”

“Where is he from?”

“—county.”

And the man mentioned the name of a county of Western
Virginia.

“What is his name?”

“M—.”

(I suppress the full name. Some mother's or sister's heart
might be wounded.)

“Bring him up,” said Stuart coldly, with a lowering, glance
from the blue eyes under the brown hat and black feather. As
he spoke, two or three mounted men rode up with the prisoner.

I can see him at this moment with the mind's eye, as I saw
him then with the material eye. He was a young man, apparently
eighteen or nineteen years of age, and wore the blue uniform,
tipped with red, of a private in the United States Artillery.
The singular fact was that he appeared completely at his ease.
He seemed to be wholly unconscious of the critical position
which he occupied; and as he approached, I observed that he
returned the dark glance of Stuart with the air of a man who
says, “What do you find in my appearance to make you fix your
eyes upon me so intently!” In another moment he was in
Stuart's presence, and calmly, quietly, without the faintest exhibition
of embarrassment, or any emotion whatever, waited to be
addressed.

Stuart's words were curtest of the curt.

“Is this the man?” he said.

“Yes, General,” replied one of the escort.

“You say he is a deserter?”

“Yes, sir; I knew him in—county, when he joined Captain—'
s company; and there is no sort of doubt about it,
General, as he acknowledges that he is the same person.”

“Acknowledges it!”

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“Yes, sir; acknowledges that he is M—, from that county;
and that after joining the South he deserted.”

Stuart flashed a quick glance at the prisoner, and seemed at a
loss to understand what fatuity had induced him to testify against
himself—thereby sealing his fate. His gaze—clear, fiery, menacing—
was returned by the youth with apathetic calmness. Not
a muscle of his countenance moved, and I now had an opportunity
to look at him more attentively. He was even younger
than I at first thought him—indeed, a mere boy. His complexion
was fair; his hair flaxen and curling; his eyes blue,
mild, and as soft in their expression as a girl's. Their expression,
as they met the lowering glances of Stuart, was almost
confiding. I could not suppress a sigh—so painful was the
thought that this youth would probably be lying soon with a
bullet through his heart.

A kinder-hearted person than General Stuart never lived; but
in all that appertained to his profession and duty as a soldier, he
was inexorable. Desertion, in his estimation, was one of the
deadliest crimes of which a human being could be guilty; and
his course was plain—his resolution immovable.

“What is your name?” said the General coldly, with a lowering
brow.

“M—, sir,” was the response, in a mild and pleasing voice,
in which it was impossible to discern the least trace of emotion.

“Where are you from?”

“I belonged to the battery that was firing at you, over yonder,
sir.”

The voice had not changed. A calmer tone I never heard.

“Where were you born?” continued Stuart, as coldly as
before.

“In—, Virginia, sir.”

“Did you belong to the Southern army at any time?”

“Yes, sir.”

The coolness of the speaker was incredible. Stuart could
only look at him for a moment in silence, so astonishing was
this equanimity at a time when his life and death were in the
balance. Not a tone of the voice, a movement of the muscles,

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or a tremor of the lip indicated consciousness of his danger.
The eye never quailed, the colour in his cheek never faded.
The prisoner acknowledged that he was a deserter from the
Southern army with the simplicity, candour, and calmness of
one who saw in that fact nothing extraordinary, or calculated in
any manner to affect his destiny unpleasantly. Stuart's eye
flashed; he could not understand such apathy; but in war there
is little time to investigate psychological phenomena.

“So you were in our ranks, and you went over to the enemy?”
he said with a sort of growl.

“Yes, sir,” was the calm reply.

“You were a private in that battery yonder?”

“Yes, sir.”

Stuart turned to an officer, and pointing to a tall pine near,
said in brief tones:

“Hang him on that tree!”

It was then that a change—sudden, awful, horrible—came
over the face of the prisoner; at that moment I read in the distended
eyeballs the “vision of sudden death.” The youth became
ghastly pale; and the eyes, before so vacant and apathetic,
were all at once injected with blood, and full of piteous
fright. I saw in an instant that the boy had not for a single
moment realized the terrible danger of his position; and that
the words “Hang him on that tree!” had burst upon him with
the sudden and appalling force of a thunderbolt. I have seen
human countenances express every phase of agony; seen the
writhing of the mortally wounded as their life-blood welled out,
and the horror of the death-struggle fixed on the cold upturned
faces of the dead; but never have I witnessed an expression
more terrible and agonizing than that which passed over the
face of the boy-deserter, as he thus heard his sentence. He had
evidently regarded himself as a mere prisoner of war; and now
he was condemned to death! He had looked forward, doubtless,
to mere imprisonment at Richmond until regularly exchanged,
when “hang him on that tree!” burst upon his ears
like the voice of some avenging Nemesis.

Terrible, piteous, sickening, was the expression of the boy's

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face. He seemed to feel already the rope around his neck; he
choked; when he spoke his voice sounded like the death rattle.
An instant of horror-struck silence; a gasp or two as if the
words were trying to force their way against some obstacle in his
throat; then the sound came. His tones were not loud, impassioned,
energetic, not even animated. A sick terror seemed to
have frozen him; when he spoke it was in a sort of moan.

“I didn't know,” he muttered in low, husky tones. “I never
meant—when I went over to Maryland—to fight against the
South. They made me; I had nothing to eat—I told them I
was a Southerner—and so help me God I never fired a shot. I
was with the wagons. Oh! General, spare me; I never—”

There the voice died out; and as pale as a corpse, trembling
in every limb—a spectacle of helpless terror which no words
can describe, the boy awaited his doom.

Stuart had listened in silence, his gaze riveted upon the
speaker; his hand grasping his heavy beard; motionless amid
the shell which were bursting around him. For an instant he
seemed to hesitate—life and death were poised in the balances.
Then with a cold look at the trembling deserter, he said to the
men:

“Take him back to General Lee, and report the circumstances.”

With these words he turned and galloped off; the deserter
was saved, at least for the moment.

I do not know his ultimate fate; but if he saw General Lee in
person, and told his tale, I think he was spared. That great and
merciful spirit inflicted the death-penalty only when he could not
avoid it.

Since that day I have never seen the face of the boy—nor
even expect to see it. But I shall never forget that “vision of
sudden death” in his distended eyes, as Stuart's cold voice
ordered, “Hang him on that tree.”

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There is a young gentleman in Virginia bearing a name so
illustrious that, if I were to give it, the most ardent opponents
of the “F. F. V.'s” would take a certain historic interest in what
I am going to relate. When I say that he is called Lieutenant
W—, you cannot possibly guess his name. But to the curious
incident with which I propose to amuse those readers who take
an interest in the veritable occurrences of the great struggle just
terminated.

On the ninth day of June, 1863, there took place at Fleetwood
Hill, near Brandy Station, in Culpeper, the greatest and most
desperate cavalry conflict of the war. Nearly twenty-five thousand
horsemen fought there “all a summer's day”—as when
Earl Percy met the Douglas in the glades of Chevy Chase—and
the combat was of unexampled fury. General Stuart, commanding
all the cavalry of General Lee's army, had held a grand
review some days before, in the extensive fields below the Court-House,
and a mimie battle had taken place, preceding the real
one. The horse artillery, posted on a hill, fired blank cartridges
as the cavalry charged the guns; the columns swept by a great
pole, from which the white Confederate flag waved proudly in
the wind. General Lee, with his grizzled beard and old gray
riding-cape, looked on, the centre of all eyes; bands played, the
artillery roared, the charging squadrons shook the ground, and

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from the great crowd assembled to witness the imposing spectacle
shone the variegated dresses and bright eyes of beautiful
women, rejoicing in the heyday of the grand review.

But that roar of artillery in the mimic battle reached other
ears than those for which it was intended. There were some
friends of ours upon the opposite shore of the Rappahannock
who took even greater interest in the movements of General Lee
than the fair daughters of Virginia. The thunder of the artillery
was heard by them, and they at once conceived a burning curiosity
to know what all this firing meant. So, one bright morning
about dawn, they came across the river, about seventeen
thousand in number, to see what “Old Uncle Robert” was
about. Thereupon followed the hard fight of Fleetwood Hill.

A description of this long and desperate struggle is no portion
of the present subject. The Federal forces advanced in front,
on the right flank, on the left flank—everywhere. The battle
was thus fought, so to speak, “from the centre outwards.”
What the eye saw as Stuart rapidly fell back from the river and
concentrated his cavalry for the defence of Fleetwood Hill,
between him and Brandy, was a great and imposing spectacle of
squadrons charging in every portion of the field—men falling,
cut out of the saddle with the sabre; artillery roaring, carbines
cracking—a perfect hurly-burly of conflict.

Some day, perhaps, the present historian may give a page to
this hard battle, and speak of its “moving accidents;” of the
manner in which the cannoneers of the horse-artillery met and
repulsed a charge upon their guns with clubs and sponge-staffs;
how that gallant spirit, P. M. B. Young, of Georgia, met the
heavy flanking column attacking from the side of Stevensburg,
and swept it back with the sabre; how the brave William H. F.
Lee received the charge upon the left and fell in front of his
squadrons at the moment when the Federal forces broke; and
how Stuart, on fire with the heat of battle, was everywhere the
soul and guiding spirit of the desperate struggle.

At four in the evening the assault had been repulsed, and the
Federal cavalry were in hasty retreat across the river again.
Many prisoners remained in the hands of the Confederates, but

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they had also lost not a few; for the fight had been so “mixed
up,” and so many small detachments of the Southern cavalry had
been cut off and surrounded in the mélée, that the captures were
considerable.

Among those who were thus cut off and captured in this wild
struggle made up of dust, smoke, blood, and uproar, was Lieutenant
W—. His horse had mired in the swampy ground near
the Barbour House, and he was incontinently gobbled up by his
friends in the blue coats, and marched to the rear, that is to say,
across the Rappahannock. Lieutenant W—was an excellent
specimen of those brave youths of the Valley who gathered around
Jackson in the early months of the war, and in the hot fights
of the great campaigns against Banks and Fremont had borne
himself with courage and distinction. Wounded and captured
at Kernstown—I think it was—he had been exchanged, secured
a transfer to the cavalry, and was now again a prisoner.

He was conducted across the Rappahannock with the Confederate
prisoners captured during the day, and soon found himself
minus horse, pistol, and sabre—all of which had, of course, been
taken from him—in front of a bonfire on the north bank of the
river. Around this fire a crowd of Federal cavalry-men were
now assembled, discussing the events of the day, and many of
them entered into conversation with the prisoners, their late adversaries.
Licutenant W—was standing by the fire, no doubt
reflecting upon the curious “ups and downs” of that curious
trade called war, when all at once something familiar in the
voice of a young officer of the Federal force, who was not far
from him, attracted his attention. Looking at the officer closely,
he recognised in him an old friend of his who had formerly resided
in Baltimore; and going up to him, the young Virginian
made himself known.

He was greeted with the utmost pleasure, and the youths
shook hands, laughing like boys at the odd meeting. If I were

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a novelist instead of an historian, my dear reader, I would here
insert a lengthy dialogue between the friends; but not having
been present, I can only give you the bare outline of W—'s
adventure. From talk about old scenes, and things of the past,
the conversation glided to the present, and the young Virginian's
unlucky situation. Relying upon their former friendship, the
latter at once broached the subject of his escape.

“I wish I could help you,” was the reply' “but I see no
sort of chance of your getting away, W—.”

“I think I can get off in the dark.”

“Perhaps; but crossing the river is the difficulty. The bridge
is picketed.”

The young Virginian, nevertheless, determined to make the
attempt. From that moment he kept a close watch on the movements
of his captors. Having eaten their suppers, they now
addressed themselves to the task of counting, assorting, and
taking down the names of their prisoners. The latter were
drawn up in a line near the fire, and a Federal officer went along
the line, entering their names and regiments in his memorandumbook.
Lieutenant W—was near the head of the line, and
having given his name and regiment—the Twelth Virginia Cavalry—
saw the officer pass on. I have called him Lieutenant
W
—, but the young man was at that time a private; and at
the announcement of his historic name the Federal soldiers began
to laugh, one of them saying “The Old Dominion must be hard
up when her aristocracy have to go in the ranks and wear a
jacket like that!” And he pointed to W—'s old, discoloured
cavalry jacket.

The young man was, however, not thinking of the jokes of his
captors; he was watching his opportunity to glide out of the
line. It soon came. The Federal soldiers were not looking at
him; the recording officer had passed around the fire, the light
of which thus shone for an instant in his eyes and dazzled him,
and Lieutenant W—saw his opportunity. The space outside
of the firelight was as gloomy as Eblis, and in a moment he had
stepped from his place, and was lost in the darkness. He glided
behind a tent, ran a few steps, and then paused to listen.

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Had his movement been observed? Would they go over the
count again, to verify the record? Then one man would be found
missing; he would be at once pursued, recaptured, and rewarded
for his attempt to escape by painful or ignominious punishment.
He listened with all his ears; held his breath, and soon found
that he was not missed. The officer did not suspect the ruse
which had been played upon him; and the prisoners were
marched off under guard. Lieutenant W—saw them disppear
with profound satisfaction, and then all his energies were
bent to the hard task of getting out of the Federal camp and
crossing the river. The prospect looked sufficiently dispiriting.
He was in the centre of a city of tents, where he could not stir
a step without attracting attention; and even if he succeeded in
escaping the vigilance of the men and the quarter-guard, the
broad and deep current of the Rappahannock lay still in his
path—the single bridge heavily picketed. The young man did
not lose heart for a single moment, however, and, like a good
soldier, determined to “take the chances.”

The first thing was to conceal his identity from the men around
the fires. He accordingly took off his gray jacket, and rolling
it up, put it under his arm. His pantaloons were blue, and his
hat was of an indefinable colour, which might be either Confederate
or Federal. In his bosom, between his shirt and naked
breast, he concealed his spurs, which he had unbuckled and
hidden when he was captured. Having thus prepared himself,
Lieutenant W—walked boldly on, and lounged carelessly by
the fires. One of the men asked him what regiment he belonged
to, as if they observed something unfamiliar in his demeanour;
but his ready reply, giving the name of some Federal regiment,
entirely disarmed suspicion. So much cavalry had taken part in
the fight, and it had been so much scattered, that W—was
set down for one of the many stragglers; and walking by the
fires, and the quarter-guard, who stared at, but did not challenge
him, he gained the bank of the Rappahannock.

He had thus succeeded in his second attempt; but obstacle
number three threatened to be more serious. The river before
him was broad, deep, black, and cold. The bridge near by was

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guarded; he heard the sentinel pacing to and fro, and a second
at the further extremity. What was to be done? Kill the sentinel
by suddenly attacking and seizing his weapon? That,
under other circumstances, might have been done; but there was
the other sentinel, who would at once give the alarm; then recapture,
and a “latter end worse than the first.” This plan was thus
out of the question. But one hope presented itself. The fugitive
could not swim the river; but if by any means he could climb up
to the floor of the bridge inside of the sentinel, he might, perhaps,
crawl along without being discovered, “flank” the sentinel beyond,
and so get back to his friends. Young, lithe, and determined,
Lieutenant W—speedily made a reconnoissance of the
abutments of the bridge to ascertain the possibility of executing
his project. To his great satisfaction he discovered a pipe running
from a tank above to the water below—for this was the
Orange and Alexandria Railroad bridge; and the rivets securing
the pipe to the masonry afforded him an excellent foothold in
climbing. Gliding beneath the sentinel in the darkness, he erept
into the shadow, grasped the pipe, and, with hands and knees,
climbed foot by foot up the abutment, until he had reached the
edge of the floor-way. His hands were torn and his knees lacerated,
but he had taken another step toward liberty.

What now remained to be done was to crawl along the narrow
edge of the parapet, under shadow of a species of low railing,
and crossing the bridge, pass around the other sentinel in some
manner, and escape. This, however, was the most doubtful, as it
was certainly the most dangerous portion of the adventure. The
bridge was very lofty, the ledge narrow, slippery, and unprotected
for he must move outside of the railing for fear of discovery; a single
false step would precipitate him into the river beneath. Even
if this, danger were avoided, there was the sentinel beyond, and a
picket, doubtless, beyond the sentinel. Lieutenant W—was
revolving in his mind these various circumstances, and had begun
to take a rather discouraging view of things, when his attention
was attracted by the sound of steps coming from the direction
of the Federal camp. A detachment of dismounted men were
evidently approaching the bridge, and in a few moments the

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voice of the sentinel was heard giving the challenge. “Relief,”
was the reply; and then came, “Advance relief!” which was immediately
followed by the appearance of the relief-guard. The new
sentinel was relieved from his post, and took his place among the
guard, one of whom was posted, and the detachment was heard
tramping across the bridge to relieve in the same manner the other
sentinels. As they came on, tramp! tramp! like the statue of
the commander in “Don Giovanni,” the young Virginian conceived
an idea as bold as it was original. It was difficult to crawl
along the narrow ledge without falling into the black gulf below,
and it was questionable whether any friendly water-pipe would enable
him to “flank” the sentinel at the opposite extremity of the
bridge. Why not “fall in” in the darkness with the unsuspecting
detachment, pass through the guard beyond, and then take the
chances of making his escape? His resolution was at once taken;
and as the guard came opposite his place of concealment behind
the low wood-work of the railing, he crouched lower, waited until
they had passed, and then quietly stepping over the railing, fell in
behind. The movement had been undiscovered; he was now
advancing with measured step to “assist,” as the French say, at
relieving the “Old Guard” on the bridges—himself as honorary
member of the relief.

His ruse was crowned with complete success. He passed with
the detachment undiscovered to a point beyond the bridge; and
then stepping from the ranks—a manœuvre which the pitch
darkness rendered by no means difficult—he concealed himself
until the unsuspecting Federals disappeared. He then crawled on
his hands and knees, crouching close to the ground by another
picket which he saw upon the road, and reaching a point where
he believed himself beyond range, rose to his feet and commenced
moving. All at once he saw before him another picket-fire;
and not knowing whether it was that of friends or enemies,
he again crouched down and slowly approached the fire, crawling
upon his chest along the surface of the ground.

He had succeeded too well up to this time to risk anything;
and he accordingly continued to “snake along” toward the fire,
in order to discover, before making himself known, whether the

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ground around it were friends or enemies. In this slow and
cautious manner he approached until he was within ten yards of
it; where, hidden behind a stump, he attentively reconnoitred.
The result was indecisive. He could not possibly succeed in
discovering whether the pickets were Federal or Confederate;
and in relating his adventure afterwards, Lieutenant W—
declared that his heart now throbbed with greater anxiety than
at any other time during the whole affair. He continued for
some time thus crouching behind the stump, and his doubt was
painful and protracted. At last it came to an end; he breathed
freely again. One of the men rose from the ground, yawned,
and said: “I don't believe there will be a Yankee on this side
of the river by the morning.”

Whereupon Lieutenant W—rose up, approached the fire,
and, with a laugh, made himself known, to the profound astonishment
and confusion of the sleepy pickets, who had thus
received a practical illustration of the ease with which an enemy
might approach and send a bullet through their hearts. They,
however, received Lieutenant W—with military hospitality,
gave him a portion of their rations, divided their blankets; and
overcome with fatigue, he lay down and slept until daylight.
Before sunrise he was at General Stuart's headquarters, and was
relating his curious adventure, to the huge amusement of the
laughing cavalier. He was without horse, arms, or other clothes
than those which he wore; but he was free, and he had his spurs,
carried throughout against his naked breast.

Such was the adventure of Lieutenant W—, and such the
means he used in making his escape. The narrative may appear
romantic, but I assure the reader that it is literally true.

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“Ho! for the Valley!”

This was the somewhat dramatic exclamation of Major-General
J. E. B. Stuart, about the 24th of June, 1863, as he got into
the saddle at the little village of Rector's Cross-Roads, between
Middleburg and Upperville, and turned his horse's head westward
toward the Blue Ridge mountains.

If the worthy reader will return in memory to that epoch, and
recall the route which the gay cavalier speedily directed his
column over, the words above quoted will appear somewhat
mysterious. “The situation” at the moment may be described
in a very few words; for the full record, see the “historian of
the future.” After the crushing defeat of Chancellorsville,
General Hooker cut behind him the pontoons covered with pine
boughs, to deaden the noise of his artillery wheels in crossing,
and took up a strong position on the northern bank of the Rappahannock
to repulse the expected onslaught of his great adversary,
Lee. No such attack, however, was intended. Lee preferred
to manœuvre his opponent out of Virginia—it was the
more bloodless proceeding—and very soon the soldiers of the
army understood that “Lee was moving.”

A grand review of the cavalry was ordered, near Culpeper
Court-House, and General Fitz Lee politely sent an invitation to
General Hood to attend it, and “bring any of his friends.” A
day or two afterwards, Hood appeared with his great division,

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announcing that these were all “his friends,” and he thought he
would bring them along. The review duly took place east of
the Court-House. The squadrons of cavalry charged—General
Stuart and his staff in front; cannon thundered in mimic conflict;
the sun shone; bright eyes flashed; and beneath the
Confederate banner, rippling on its lofty pole, the Commander-in-Chief
sat his iron-gray, looking on. Festivities at the Court-House
followed; the youngesters of the army had a gay dance
with the young ladies from the country round; and almost in
the midst of the revelry, as at Brussels on the night of Waterloo,
the thunder of artillery was heard from the direction of Fleetwood
Hill, near Brandy. In fact, Stuart had been assailed there
by the élite of the Federal infantry and cavalry, under some of
their ablest commanders—the object of the enemy being to ascertain,
by reconnoissance in force, what all the hubbub of the
review signified—and throughout the long June day, they threw
themselves, with desperate gallantry, against the Southern
horse—no infantry on our side taking part in the action. Colonel
Williams was killed; Captain Farley, of Stuart's staff, was
killed; Captain White, of the staff, too, was wounded; Colonel
Butler was wounded; General W. H. F. Lee was shot down at
the head of his charging column; and Stuart himself was more
than once completely surrounded. For three hours the battle
was “touch and go;” but thanks to the daring charges of Young
and Lee, the enemy were driven; they slowly and sullenly retired,
leaving the ground strewed with their dead, and at nightfall
were again beyond the Rappahannock.

The trumpet of battle had thus been sounded; action followed.
Lee put his columns in motion for Pennsylvania; Stuart advanced
with his cavalry to hold the country east of the Blue
Ridge, and guard the passes as the long column moved through;
and then commenced a war of the giants between the opposing
horse of the Federal and Confederate armies. It was a matter of
grave importance that Hooker should undo the designs of Lee;
and mighty efforts were made to burst through the cavalry
cordon, and strike the flank of the moving army. Stuart was,
however, in the way. On all the roads was his omnipresent

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cavalry, under the daring Hampton, Fitz Lee, the gay and gallant
cavalier, and others as resolute. Everywhere the advance
of the enemy's cavalry was met and driven back, until about the
twentieth of June. Then a conclusive trial of strength took
place. A grand reconnoitring force, composed of a division of
infantry under General Birney, I believe, and several divisions
of cavalry, with full supports of artillery, was pushed forward
from Aldie; Stuart was assailed simultaneously along about
fifteen miles of front; and in spite of his most strenuous efforts,
he was forced slowly to fall back toward the Ridge. This was
one of the most stubborn conflicts of the war; and on every
hill, from the summit of every knoll, Stuart fought with artillery,
cavalry, and dismounted sharpshooters, doggedly struggling
to hold his ground. The attempt was vain. Behind the heavy
lines of Federal skirmishers advanced their dense columns of
cavalry; behind the cavalry were seen the bristling bayonets of
their infantry; from the right, the left, and the front, thundered
their excellently served artillery. Stuart was pushed from hill
to hill, the enemy came on mile after mile, and at Upperville a
great disaster seemed imminent. The Federal forces closed in
on front and flanks, made a desperate attack with the sabre,
and the result seemed about to be decided. Stuart was in the
very hottest of the press, sword in hand, determined evidently
to repulse the enemy or die, and his black feather was the mark
of a hundred pistol-balls—his rich uniform clearly indicating
his rank to the Federal troopers almost in contact with him.
This was the depressing situation of affairs—the centre driven,
and the column on the Bloomfield road falling rapidly back on
the left, thus exposing the main body to imminent danger of
being cut off, when the Deus ex machinâ appeared in the person
of Wade Hampton. That good cavalier saw the crisis, formed his
column under the heavy fire, and taking command in person,
went at them with the sabre, seareely firing a shot. The result
was that the Federal line was swept back, the élite of the
charging force put hors du combat by the edge of the sabre, and
the Southern column fell back toward Paris, in the mouth of
Ashby's Gap, without further difficulty.

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The enemy had accomplished their object, and they had not
accomplished it. Stuart was forced to retire, but they had not
succeeded in penetrating to the Ridge. No doubt the presence of
infantry there was discovered or suspected, but otherwise the
great reconnoissance was unproductive of substantial results.

On the same night they retired. Stuart followed them at
dawn with his whole force; and by mid-day he was in possession
of Middleburg, several miles in advance of his position on the
day before.

Such was the quick work of these two days.

It was about three days after these events that Stuart sprang
with a gay laugh to saddle, turned his horse's head westward,
and uttered that exclamation:

“Ho! for the Valley!”

Now, if the reader will permit, I beg to descend from the
lofty heights of historic summary to the level champaign of my
personal observations and adventures. From the heights alluded
to, you see a long distance, and distinguish the “important
events” in grand outline; but in the level you are greeted by
more of the colouring of what occurs. In this paper I design
recording some scenes and incidents as they passed before my
own eyes, rather than to sum up facts in “official” form. A
memoir rather than a history is intended; and as a human
being can only remember what he has seen and felt, the present
writer—even at the risk of being charged with egotism—is going
to confine himself, as closely as possible, to his own adventures
and impressions de voyage.

“Ho for the Valley!” was a truly delightful exclamation to
me. Bright eyes of various colours shone there by the Shenandoah
and Opequon; there were some voices whose music I had
not heard for a long time. The prospect now of seeing the eyes,
and hearing the voices, banished every other thought, even the
remembrance of that heavy misfortune of having had my

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military satchel, with all I possessed in the way of a wardrobe, captured
by the enemy a few days before when they drove us from
the Cross-Roads. There could certainly be no doubt about the
General's meaning. He had turned his horse toward the Ridge.
“Ho! for the Valley!” indicated his intended line of march;
he, like myself, was going to see his good friends all in that land
of lands along the Shenandoah.

Alas! and whenever that pithy word is employed by a writer,
the reader knows what he has to expect. General Stuart had
scarcely got out of sight of the village, carolling a gay song as
he rode, when the disconsolate staff-officer beside him observed a
movement of the General's left rein; his horse cleared a fence;
and ten minutes afterwards he was riding rapidly castward, in a
direction precisely opposite to the Blue Ridge. The General had
practised a little ruse to blind the eyes of the Cross-Roads villagers—
was doubling on the track; he was going after General
Hooker, then in the vicinity of Manassas, and thence—whither?

We bivouacked by the roadside under some pines that night,
advanced before dawn, drove a detachment of the enemy from
Glasscock's Gap, in the Bull Run mountain, and pushed on to
cut off any force which lingered in the gorge of Thoroughfare Gap.
When cavalry undertake to cut off infantry, the process is exciting,
but not uniformly remunerative. It was the rear of Hancock's
corps which we struck not far from Haymarket; there,
passing rapidly toward Manassas, about eight hundred yards off,
were the long lines of wagons and artillery; and behind these
came on the dense blue masses of infantry, the sunshine lighting
up their burnished bayonets.

Stuart hastened forward his artillery; it opened instantly upon
the infantry, and the first shot crashed into a caisson, making the
horses rear and run; the infantry line bending backward as
though the projectile had struck it. This “good shot” highly
delighted the General, who turned round laughing, and called
attention to the accuracy of the fire. The individual addressed
laughed in response, but replied, “Look out, though; they are
going to enfilade you from that hill on the right, General.”
“Oh! I reckon not,” responded the General; but he had

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scarcely spoken when a puff of white smoke rose from the wooded
knoll in question, and a shot screamed by, just grazing the top
of one of our caissons near the guns. This was followed by
another and another; the enemy were seen hastily forming
line, and advancing sharpshooters; whereupon Stuart ordered
back his guns, and dismounted cavalry to meet them.

A running fight; enemy merely holding their flank intact;
soon the line had passed on and disappeared; the cavalry saw
vanish safely all those tantalizing wagons filled with good, rich
forage, and who knew what beside. Stuart meanwhile had sent
off Mosby, with a party of picked men, to reconnoitre, and was
sleeping with his head upon an officer's breast—to the very
extreme discomfort of that personage, whose profound respect for
his sleepy military superior prevented him from changing his
position.

With night came rain, and the General and his staff were
invited to the handsome mansion of Dr.—, near Bucklands,
where all slept under cover but Stuart. Everywhere he insisted
on faring like his men; and I well remember the direction given
to his body-servant a few days before, to spread his blankets
under a tree on a black and stormy night with the rain descending
in torrents—the house in which he had established his headquarters
being only twenty paces from the tree. On this night
at Bucklands he repeated the ceremony, but a gay supper preceded
it.

That supper is one of the pleasant memories the present writer
has of the late war. How the good companions laughed and
devoured the viands of the hospitable host! How the beautiful
girls of the family stood with mock submission, servant-wise,
behind the chairs, and waited on the guests with their sweetest
smiles, until that reversal of all the laws of the universe became
a perfect comedy, and ended in an éclat of laughter! General
and staff waited in turn on the waiters; and when the tired
troopers fell asleep on the floor of the portico, it is certain that a
number of bright eyes shone in their dreams. Such is the
occasional comedy which lights up the tragedy of war.

The bugle sounded; we got into the saddle again; the

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columns moved; and that evening we had passed around Manassas,
where Hooker's rear force still lingered, and were approaching
Fairfax Station through the great deserted camps near Wolf
Run Shoals. The advance pushed on through the wild and
desolate locality, swarming with abandoned cabins and army
débris; and soon we had reached the station, which is not far
from the Court-House.

Here took place a little incident, known afterwards among the
present writer's friends as the “Cherry-Pie Breakfast.” A brief
notice of this historic occurrence may entertain the reader.
Three members of the staff and a young courier left the column
to seek a blacksmith, whose services were needed; and the house
of this worthy was found about half a mile east of the station.
He was a friend of the gray, prompt and courteous, and soon
was busy at the hoofs of the horses; his good wife meanwhile
getting breakfast for the party. It was speedily served, and
consisted of every delicacy—bread of all descriptions, fresh butter,
yellow cream, sweetmeats, real coffee, then an extreme
luxury, and some cherry pies, which caused the wandering staff
officers to break forth into exclamations of rapture. A heavy
attack was made upon all, and our “bluebird” friends themselves,
fond as they are said to be of the edible, could not have
surpassed the devotion exhibited toward the cherry pies. At
the end of the repast one of the party, in the enthusiasm of the
moment, piled up several pieces of the pie, drew out his purse,
and determined to carry off the whole for future consumption;
whereat a friendly contest occurred between himself and the
excellent dame, who could not be induced to receive pay from
any member of the party for her entertainment. “She had
never charged a Confederate soldier a cent, and never meant to.”

All this was peaceful and pleasing; but all at once there was
a stir in the yard, and without securing the pie, we went out.
Lo! a gentleman in a blue coat and mounted was seen rapidly
approaching below the house, followed by others.

“Look out!” said Major V—; “there are the Yankees!”

“They are running by—they won't stop. What are you
going to do?” I said.

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“I am going to put the bridle on my horse!”

And the Major bridled up and mounted rapidly.

“Well, I am going to wait to have the shoes put on mine.”

Idle and absurd intent! Even as I spoke, the party scattered,
Major V— galloping to the right, Major Mc— to
the left, with the courier. A single glance revealed the “situation.”
Another party of blue-coats were rushing at full gallop
toward the house from above. Shots suddenly resounded.
“Hi! hi! halt!” followed; and I had just time to mount and
pass at full speed across the front of the party, pursued by more
shots and “hi-hi's!” Admire, reader, the spectacle of the stampeded
staff officers! My friend in front resembled the worthy
Gilpin, with a pistol holster for the jug—his horse's tail “floating
free,” and every nail in the hind shoes of the animal visible
as he darted headlong toward the protecting woods! We
plunged through a swamp, jumped fences and fallen trees, and
reaching the forest-cover, penetrated a thicket, and stopped to
listen. The shouts died away; no sound of hoofs came, and
doubling back, we came again to the station to find the meaning
of everything. Stuart had been quietly waiting there for his
column, with the bridle out of his horse's mouth, in order that
the animal might champ some “Yankee oats,” when all at once a
scouting-party had come at full gallop from the direction of the
Court-House. Before he was aware of their approach, they'
whenearly upon him; he had just had time to escape by seizing
the halter and digging the spurs into his horse.

Then the scouting party, finding the size of the hornets'enest
into which they had leaped, turned their horses'eheads eastward,
bore down on the blacksmith's whither we had gone, interrupted
the “cherry-pie breakfast,” and vanished toward Sanxter's, chasing
Major V— until he came up with Munford. When our
probable capture was announced to General Stuart, and a squadron
requested for our recovery, I am sorry to say that the
General responded with a laugh, “Oh! they are too intelligent
to be caught!” and when the incident of the abandonment of
the cherry-pie was related to Stuart, he enjoyed it in a remarkable
degree!

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Do you remember still, my dear companions, that good cherry-pie
breakfast, the chase which followed, and the laughter of
Stuart? That was a jovial trip we made across the border in
the good year 1863; and the days and nights were full of incident
and adventure. Do you find the present year, 1866, as
“gay and happy” as its predecessor? I do not.

Our mishap above related was truly unfortunate. It gave the
advance-guard the start, and when we reached Fairfax Court-House,
they had rifled the public store-houses and sutlers' shops
of their entire contents.

It was impossible to forbear from laughing at the spectacle'
hich the cavalry column presented. Every man had on a
white straw hat, and a pair of snowy cotton gloves. Every
trooper carried before him upon the pommel of his saddle a bale
of smoking tobacco, or a drum of figs; every hand grasped a pile
of ginger-cakes, 'hich were rapidly disappearing. But hospitality
to the rear-guard was the order of the day. We did not
suffer. The mishaps of my comrades and myself had in some
manner become known, and we were greeted with shouts of
laughter, but with soldierly generosity too. Every hand proffered
a straw hat of the most elegant pattern, or a pair of gloves
as white as the driven snow. Every comrade held out his figs,
pressed on his cakes, or begged us to try his smoking tobacco—'
hich I am compelled to say was truly detestable.

Such was the gay scene at Fairfax Court-House when Stuart
entered the place.

The cavalry did not stop long. Soon the column was again
moving steadily towards the Potomac, intelligence having arrived
that General Hooker's main body had passed that river
at Leesburg. What would Stuart do—what route would he
now follow? There were few persons, if any, in the entire command, '
ho could reply to that question. Cross at Leesburg?
To merely follow up Hooker 'hile Hooker followed up Lee,

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was very unlike Stuart. Strike across for the Blue Ridge, and
cross at Shepherdstown? That would lose an immense amount
of invaluable time and horse-flesh. Cross below Leesburg? That
seemed impossible with the artillery, and difficult even for
cavalry. The river was broad, deep, with a rocky and uneven
bed; and so confident were the enemy of the impossibility of our
crossing there, that not a picket watched the stream.

Stuart's design was soon developed. We reached at nightfall
an elevation not far from the Great Falls—the spot laid down
on the maps as Matildaville, or near it—Stuart riding with staff
and advance guard far in front. The latter pushed on—the rest
stopping—when all at once shots came from the front, and Stuart
called out cheerily to the staff: “Look out! Here they come!
Give it to them with pistols!” The bang of carbines followed:
a squadron hastened to the front, and opened fire; and in the
midst of it Stuart said, “Tell Hampton—you can follow his trail—
that Chambliss is up, and Fitz Lee coming.” The “trail” was
plain in the moonlight; I followed it; and reaching the Potomac
just above the Falls, found Hampton crossing.

The spectacle was picturesque. The broad river glittered in
the moon, and on the bright surface was seen the long, wavering
line of dark figures, moving “in single file;” the water washing
to and fro across the backs of the horses, 'hich kept their feet
with difficulty. The hardest portion of the task was crossing
the cannon of the horse-artillery. It seemed impossible to get
the limbers and caissons over without wetting, and so destroying
the ammunition; but the ready brain of Stuart found an expedient.
The boxes were quickly unpacked; every cavalry-man
took charge of a shell, case, or solid shot with the fixed cartridge;
and thus held well aloft, the precious freight was carried over
dry. Once on the other side, the shell-bearers deposited the
ammunition on the beach; it was repacked in the caissons, 'hich
had been dragged by the plunging horses over the rocky bed in
safety; the guns followed; the artillery was over!

At Hanovertown, in Pennsylvania, two or three days afterwards,
the cavalry did not by any means regret the trouble they
had been put to in carrying over that ammunition “dry shod.”

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Breathed thundered with it from the heights, and with shell
after shell broke the heavy line advancing to the assault.
Never was thunder sweeter and more musical! But I anticipate.

The river was crossed; also the Chesapeake and Ohio canal,
by a narrow bridge; and the cavalry halted for brief rest—the
General and staff receiving open-handed hospitality from Mr.—
and his family; those guardian angels of the soldier, the
ladies, staying up all night to wait upon the weary gray-backs,
and give them food.

The column moved at dawn toward the “undiscovered land”
of Star-and-Stripe-dom, in a northern direction, toward Rockville.
It was not long before we came on the blue people.
“Bang! bang! bang!” indicated that the advance guard was
charging a picket; the shots ended; we pushed on, passing some
dead or wounded forms, bleeding by the grassy roadside; and
the town of Rockville came in sight. The present writer pushed
on after the advance guard, 'hich had galloped through, and
riding solus along a handsome street, came suddenly upon a
spectacle which was truly pleasing. This was a seminary for
young ladies, with open windows, open doors—and doors and
windows were full and running over with the fairest specimens
of the gentler sex that eye ever beheld. It was Sunday, and
the beautiful girls in their fresh gaily coloured dresses, low necks,
bare arms, and wildernesses of braids and curls, were “off duty”
for the moment, and burning with enthusiasm to welcome the
Southerner; for Rockville, in radical parlance, was a “vile secesh
hole.” Every eye flashed, every voice exclaimed; every rosy lip
laughed; every fair hand waved a handkerchief or a sheet of
music (smuggled) with crossed Confederate flags upon the cover.
The whole façade of the building was a tulip-bed of brilliant
colours, more brilliant eyes, and joy and welcome!

Pardon, friend, if you are of the “other faction,” this little
burst of enthusiasm, as I remember Rockville on that gay June
morning. Pleasant it is in the dull hours of to-day to recall
that scene; and the bright eyes flash once more, the laughter
again sounds!

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As the present historian drew near, riding as aforesaid, ahead
of his commander, a beautiful girl of about sixteen rushed forth
from the portico, pirouetting and clapping her hands in an
ecstasy at the sight of the gray uniform, exclaiming, “Oh! here
is one of General Stuart's Aides!” and finished by pulling some
hair from the mane of my calm and philosophic old war-horse,
on the expressly stated ground that he was “a Secession horse!”
Then General Stuart approached with his column—gay, laughing,
his blue eyes under the black feather full of the joy of the
soldier; and a wild welcome greeted him. The scene was one'
hich beggars description, and it remains in my memory to-day
as clearly as though cut deep in “monumental alabaster.”
Sweet faces, with the beautiful welcoming eyes, and smiling
lips! an ex-rebel—he who writes this page—takes off his hat
and bows low to you, saluting you as the pearls of loveliness
and goodness!

Stuart did not tarry. In war there is little time for gallant
words, and news had just reached us from the front 'hich
moved the column on like the sound of the bugle.

This news was, that 'hile we approached Rockville from the
south, a mighty train of nearly two hundred wagons—new,
fresh-painted, drawn each by six sleek mules, as became the
“Reserve Forage Train” of the Department at Washington—
had in like manner approached from the east, intent on collecting
forage. The rumour of the dread vicinity of the graybacks
had come to them, however, blown on the wind; the column of
wagons had instantly “counter-marched” in the opposite direction;
they ' whenow thundering at full gallop back toward
Washington, pursued by the advance guard.

Stuart's face flushed at the thought of capturing this splendid
prize; and shouting to a squadron to follow him, and the main
column to push on, he went at a swift gallop on the track of the
fleeing wagons.

Soon we came up with them, and then commenced an

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indescribably grotesque scene. The immense train was seen covering
the road for miles. Every team in full gallop, every wagon
whirling onward, rebounding from rocks, and darting into the
air,—one crashing against another “with the noise of thunder”—
here one overturned, and lying with wheels upward, the mules
struggling and kicking in the harness; then one toppling over a
steep bank, and falling with a loud crash: others burning, others
still dashing for shelter to the woods,—the drivers cursing, yelling,
lashing, blaspheming, howling amid the bang of carbines,
the clatter of hoofs, and cries of “Halt! halt! halt!”

Stuart burst into laughter, and turning round, exclaimed:
“Did you ever see anything like that in all your life!” And I
certainly never had. The grotesque ruled; the mules seemed
wilder than the drivers. They had been cut by the score from
the overturned wagons, and now ran in every direction, kicking
up at every step, sending their shrill cries upon the air, and presenting
a spectacle so ludicrous that a huge burst of “Olympian
laughter” echoed from end to end of the turnpike.

Soon they were all stopped, captured, and driven to the rear
by the aforesaid cursing drivers, now sullen, or laughing like the
captors. All but those overturned. These were set on fire, and
soon there rose for miles along the road the red glare of flames,
and the dense smoke of the burning vehicles. They had been
pursued within sight of Washington, and I saw, I believe, the
dome of the capitol. That spectacle was exciting—and General
Stuart thought of pushing on to make a demonstration against
the defences. This, however, was given up; and between the
flames of the burning wagons we pushed back to Rockville,
through which the long line of captured vehicles, with their
sleek, rosetted mules, six to each, had already defiled, amid the
shouts of the inhabitants. Those thus “saved” were about one
hundred in number.

The column moved, and about ten that night reached Brookville,
where the atmosphere seemed Southern, like that of Rockville,
for a bevy of beautiful girls thronged forth with baskets of
cakes, and bread and meat, and huge pitchers of ice-water—penetrating
fearlessly the press of trampling hoofs and ministering

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to the necessities of the rebels with undisguised satisfaction.
If the fair girl living in the handsome mansion below Mr.
Hamilton's, remembers still to whom she insisted upon presenting
nine cups of coffee with every delicacy, the rebel in question
begs to assure her of his continued gratitude for her kindness.
At Brookville some hundreds of prisoners—the greater part captured
by General Wickham in a boat at the Potomac—were
paroled and started for Washington, as an act of humanity.

At one o'clock in the morning Stuart mounted and moved on,
speedily falling asleep in the saddle, and tottering from side to
side. In this he was not alone; and I remember the laughable
spectacle of Major M—, sitting grave, erect, and motionless upon
his horse in front of a country store by the roadside, to which
the animal had made his way and halted. The Major seemed to
be waiting—for somebody, or something—meanwhile he was snoring.
Moving steadily on, the column approached Westminster,
and here Fitz Lee, who was in advance, found the enemy drawn
up in the street awaiting him. A charge quickly followed,
carbines banged, and the enemy gave way—but we left behind,
lying dead by the roadside, Lieutenants Murray and Gibson, two
of our best officers, shot dead in the skirmish. The enemy were
pursued at full gallop through the town, to their camp on the
heights to the west; the camp was taken with all its contents—
and the bugles of Fitz Lee, sounding on the wind from the
breezy upland, told that he had driven the Federal cavalry before
him. Westminster was ours.

Stuart took possession, but was not greeted with much cordiality.
Friends, and warm ones, met us, but they had a “hacked”
demeanour, and many of them spoke under their breath.
Westminster was evidently “Union,” but some families warmly
welcomed us—others scowled. The net results of the capture
of the place were—one old dismounted gun of the “Quaker”
order on a hill near the cavalry camp aforesaid, and a United
States flag taken from the vault of the Court-House, with the
names of the ladies who had made it worked across each star.
What became of this I do not know. We left the town that
night, bivouacked in the rain by the roadside, pushed on at

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dawn, and were soon in Pennsylvania, where details were immediately
sent out to seize horses. These, as I saw them pass in
great numbers, were large, fat, sleek, and apparently excellent.
I was not long, however, in discovering that they were worthless
as riding-horses; one of the thin, wiry, rawboned Virginia horses,
half the weight of these Conestogas, would wear out a dozen.
One had “blood,” the other had not—and blood will tell.

We were enemies here, but woman, the angelic, still succoured
us; woman, without shoes or stockings often, and speaking
Dutch, but no less hospitable. One of them presented me with
coffee, bread spread with “apple-butter”—and smiles. I don't
think the Mynheers found the gray people very fierce and
bloody. The horses were appropriated; but beyond that nothing—
the very necks of the chickens went unwrung.

The column was in high glee thus far, and the men were
rapidly receiving “remounts.” No enemy approached—your
old soldier never very bitterly laments that circumstance; but
all at once as we approached Hanovertown, we stirred up the
hornets. Chambliss—that brave soul who afterwards fell heroically
fighting in Charles City—at the head of the Ninth Virginia
drove in their pickets; and he had just swept on down the
heights toward the town, whose steeples shone before us
nestling beneath the mountain, when Stuart in person rode up
rapidly.

“Well, General,” I said, “Chambliss has driven them, and is
going right on.”

“Good!” was Stuart's reply. “Tell him to push on and
occupy the town, but not to pursue them too far.”

These words were impressed upon my memory by the sequel,
which laughably but very disagreeably reversed the General's
expectations. Hastening down the declivity with the order for
Chambliss, I found him advancing rapidly in column of fours to
charge the enemy, who were drawn up in the outskirts of the
town. Before he could issue the order it was rendered somewhat
nugatory by the blue people in front. We had supposed
their force to be small, but it was now seen to be heavy. They
swarmed everywhere, right, left, and front; rapidly formed line

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of battle, and delivering a sharp volley at short range in
the faces of the Confederates, made a gallant and headlong
charge.

The result made it unnecessary to warn the men not to “pursue
too far.” They met the charge sabre to sabre; a hot conflict
ensued, but the enemy pressing on with unbroken front in heavy
force, the Ninth fell back in good order to the higher ground in
their rear, keeping off the assailants at the edge of the sabre.
The road over which they made this “retrograde” was narrow,
and the mêlée of trampling hoofs, shouts, and sabre-cuts, was more
exciting than amusing. Men fell all around before the fire of
the excellent Spencer rifles of the enemy; and while gallantly
rallying the men, Captain John Lee was shot through the arm.
To add to the disagreeable character of the situation, I now
observed General Stuart in person, and unattended, coming
across the field to the right at full gallop, pursued by a detachment
of cavalry who fired on him as they came, and as I reached
his side his face was stormy, his voice irate.

“Have the artillery put in position yonder on the road; tell
it to open!” was his brief order.

And in a few minutes it was hurried forward, and opened
fire. Returning to the field in which I had left the General, I
found him the second time “falling back” before a hotter pursuit
than the first. The Federal cavalry-men, about a company,
were nigh upon him as he galloped across the field; shots
whistled; orders to halt resounded; but it may be understood
that it was inconvenient to comply. We went on headlong,
leaped a tremendous ravine with the enemy almost in contact,
and following a friendly lane where the rails were down, reached
the slope where the artillery had just opened its thunders.

This checked the enemy's further advance, and Hampton having
opened on the right, things settled down somewhat. We
had evidently waked up a real hornets' nest, however. Long
columns of blue cavalry were seen defiling down the mountain,
and advancing to the front, and a heavy force was observed
closing in on the left. All at once the edge of the town swarmed
with blue figures; a heavy line was seen advancing, and soon

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this line pushed on with cheers, to charge the artillery on the
heights.

Breathed replied by opening upon them with shell and canister.
The first shell burst in the line; the second near the first;
and the third made it waver. A more rapid fire succeeded;
everything depended upon these few moments, and then the line
was seen slowly retiring. At the same instant intelligence came
that the force on the left was Fitz Lee, who had come in on
that flank; and the continuous thunder of Hampton on the
right showed plainly that in that direction all was well. This
advance of the Federal sharpshooters was one of the finest sights
I ever beheld; and at one moment I thought Breathed's guns
would never leave that field of tall rye where they were vomiting
fire and smoke—under the command of this gallant Major
at least. Whether this historian also would succeed in retiring
without capture seemed equally doubtful, as he had mounted a
huge Conestoga—fat, sleek, elephantine, and unwieldy—a philosophic
animal who stood unmoved by the cannon, never blinking
at the discharges, and appeared superior to all the excitements
of the moment. Breathed's fire, however, repulsed the
charge; and as night drew on, Stuart set his column in motion—
the wagons in the centre—toward Jefferson. One ludicrous
scene at that moment I perfectly remember. A fat Dutchman
who had been lounging about, and reconnoitring the strength,
etc., of the Confederate force, was regarded as too well informed
to be left behind with the enemy; and this worthy was accordingly
requested to “come along” on the back of a huge Conestoga.
This request he treated with calm disregard, when a
cavalry-man made a tremendous blow at him, which caused him
to mount in hot haste, with only a halter to guide his elephant.
He had no sooner done so than the Conestoga ran off, descended
the slope at full speed, bounded elephant-wise over an enormous
ditch—and it was only by clinging close with knees and hands
that the Dutchman kept his seat. Altogether, the spectacle was
one to tickle the ribs of death. The last I saw of the captive,
he was in the very centre of the cavalry column, which was
moving at a trot, and he was swept on with it; passing away

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for ever from the eyes of this historian, who knows not what
became of him thereafter.

The sun began to decline now, and we rode, rode, rode—the
long train of wagons strung out to infinity, it seemed. At dark
the little village of Jefferson was reached—of which metropolis
I recall but one souvenir. This was a pretty Dutch girl, who
seemed not at all hostile to the gray people, and who willingly
prepared me an excellent supper of hot bread, milk, coffee, and
eggs fried temptingly with bacon. She could not speak English—
she could only look amiable, smile, and murmur unintelligible
words in an unknown language. I am sorry to say, that I do not
recall the supper with a satisfaction as unalloyed. I was sent
by the General to pass somebody through his pickets, and on my
return discovered that I was the victim of a cruel misfortune.
The young hostess had placed my supper on a table in a small
apartment, in which a side door opened on the street; through
this some felonious personage had entered—hot bread, milk,
coffee, eggs, and ham, had vanished down some hungry cavalryman's
throat.

Mounting despondingly, I followed the column, which had
again begun to move, and soon reached the village of New
Salem.

It was nearly midnight when we arrived at this small village;
and, to continue my own personal recollections, the village
tavern appeared to present a favourable opportunity to redeem
my misfortune at Jefferson.

It was proposed, accordingly, to the General that he should
stop there and procure some coffee, of which he was very fond—
and as he acceded to this cheerfully, I applied to the burly landlord,
who responded encouragingly. In a quarter of an hour the
coffee was ready; also some excellent ale; also some bread and
the inseparable “apple butter,” or “spreading,” as the Pennsylvanians
call this edible. When General Stuart had emptied his

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coffee-cup—which always put the stout cavalier in a gay humour—
he laughed, mounted his horse, and said to me:

“By the by, suppose you stay here until Hampton comes
along; I am going on with Fitz Lee. Tell Hampton to move
on steadily on the road to Dover, and show him the way.”

With these words, the General rode away on the track of
General Fitz Lee, and the present writer was left solus, to “hold
the position alone” at Salem. This position, it speedily appeared,
was not wholly desirable. The advance division under
Lee had pushed on several miles ahead—there was not a single
cavalryman beside myself in Salem—and Hampton was several
miles behind. To add to the charms of the “situation,” there
were a number of extremely cut-throat looking individuals of the
“other faction” lounging about the porch, eyeing the lonely
Confederate askance, and calculating apparently the chance of
“suppressing” him without danger—and the individual in this
disagreeable situation was nearly dead for want of sleep.

There appeared, however, to be very little real hostility—such
as I imagine would have been exhibited by the inhabitants of a
Southern village had an officer of the U. S. army been left
behind under similar circumstances. Doubtless the hangers-on
were impressed with the conviction that in case the wandering
staff-officer did not rejoin his command, General Stuart would
return to look for him, torch in hand, when the village of New
Salem would make its exit in a bonfire. The portly landlord,
especially, appeared to be a real philosopher; and when asked
the meaning of a distant noise, replied with a laugh, “Some of
your people tearing up the railroad, I guess!”

In spite of the worthy's strong coffee and the unpleasing expression
of eye in the crowd around, I was just dropping asleep
in my chair on the porch, when the clatter of hoofs resounded,
and the voice of General Hampton was heard in the darkness,
asking if there was any one there to direct him. This sound
aroused me, and in a few moments I was riding with the brave
cavalier at the head of his column toward Dover. Toward dawn
General Hampton halted, and I asked if he was going to stop.

“Yes, for a little while—I am perishing for sleep.”

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And with these words the General proceeded to a haystack
near the road, pulled down some of the hay, wrapped himself in
his cape, and in a few minutes was fast asleep—his companion
exactly imitating him.

At daylight we reached the straggling little village of Dover,
where more prisoners were paroled; thence proceeded through
a fine country towards Carlisle; at Dillstown procured dinner
from the landlord of the principal tavern, a philosophic Mr. Miller,
whose walls were covered with pictures of black trotters in
skeleton conveyances, making rapid time; and at night reached
Carlisle, which General Stuart immediately summoned to surrender
by flag of truce.

The reply to this was a flat refusal from General Smith; and
soon a Whitworth gun in the town opened, and the Southern
guns replied. This continued for an hour or two, when the U. S.
barracks were fired, and the light fell magnificently upon the
spires of the city, presenting an exquisite spectacle.

Meanwhile, the men were falling asleep around the guns, and
the present writer slept very soundly within ten feet of a battery
hotly firing. Major R—leaned against a fence within a few
paces of a howitzer in process of rapid discharge, and in that upright
position “forgot his troubles.” The best example, however,
was one which General Stuart mentioned. He saw a man climb
a fence, put one leg over, and in that position drop asleep!

Any further assault upon Carlisle was stopped by a very simple
circumstance. General Lee sent for the cavalry. He had
recalled Early from York; moved with his main column east of
the South Mountain, toward the village of Gettysburg; and
Stuart was wanted. In fact, during the afternoon of our advance
to Carlisle—the first of July—the artillery fire of the “first
day's fight” was heard, and referring to Lloyd's map, I supposed
it to be at Gettysburg, a place of which I had no knowledge.
How unexpected was the concentration of the great opposing
forces there, will appear from General Stuart's reply, “I reckon
not,” when the firing was spoken of as “near Gettysburg.” No
one then anticipated a battle there—Generals Lee and Meade
almost as little as the rest.

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In spite of the broken-down condition of his command, Stuart
moved at once—and whole columns went to sleep in the saddle.
Pennsylvania had so far proved to us a veritable “Land of
Drowsy head!”

This night march was the most severe I ever experienced. The
long succession of sleepless nights had prostrated the strongest,
and General Stuart and his staff moving without escort on the
Willstown road, passed over mile after mile asleep in the saddle.
At dawn, the General dismounted in a clump of trees by the
roadside; said, “I am going to sleep two hours;” and wrapping
himself in his cape simply leaned against a tree and was immediately
asleep. Everybody imitated him, and I was awakened by
the voice of one of the couriers, who informed me that “the
General was gone.” Such was the fact—Stuart had risen punctually
at the end of the two hours, stretched himself, mounted,
and ridden on solus, a wandering Major General in the heart of
Pennsylvania! In the afternoon the cavalry were at Gettysburg.

General Stuart arrived with his cavalry on the evening of the
“second day's fight” at Gettysburg, and took position on the
left of Ewell, whose command composed the left wing of the
army.

All Stuart's energies were now bent to acquire an accurate
idea of the ground, and hold the left against the enemy's horse,
who were active and enterprising. In reconnoitring their position
on the railroad, he was suddenly fired upon at close quarters—
the bullets passing in dangerous proximity—and having
thus satisfied himself of the enemy's whereabouts, the General
returned to his impromptu headquarters, namely a tree on the
side of the Heidelburg road, about a mile from the town. Meanwhile
we had learned the particulars of the two hard fights—A.
P. Hill's on the evening of the first of July; and Longstreet's
on the second, when he made that desperate flank attack on the

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enemy's left at Round Top. It is easy to see, now, that this assault
was the turning point of the tremendous struggle. For
thirty minutes the issue hung suspended in the balances, and
there is some truth in the rhetorical flourish of a Northern versewriter,
to the effect that “the century reeled,” when Longstreet
paused on the brow of the hill. Had he gained possession of the
Round Top, General Meade's line would have been taken in
flank and reverse; he would doubtless have been forced to fall
back to another position; this would have been undertaken under
the fire of the Southern cannon and muskets; and once in motion
it is doubtful if the U. S. army could have been brought up
to a new struggle. If not, Baltimore and Washington would
speedily have been occupied by the Southern forces—the result
of which would probably have been peace.

But this is a long digression from the cavalry operations. The
“third day” dawned; Stuart took post with his cavalry on the
extreme right and rear of the Federal forces—and the thunder
opened. We could only hear the battle, not see it. The Federal
cavalry kept us quite busy. It was handled here with skill
and gallantry—the heavy lines were seen to form, the officers
galloping up and down; three measured cheers were given by
the men, apparently by formal military order, they were so
regular; then the bugle sounded, and the blue horsemen came
on shaking the ground with their trampling hoofs. The struggle
was bitter and determined, but brief. For a moment the air was
full of flashing sabres and pistol smoke, and a wild uproar
deafened the ears; then the Federal horse gave back, pursued
by their opponents. We lost many good men, however; among
the rest, General Hampton was shot in the side, and nearly cut
out of the saddle by a sabre stroke. Ten minutes before I had
conversed with the noble South Carolinian, and he was full of
life, strength, and animation. Now he was slowly being borne to
the rear in his ambulance, bleeding from his dangerous wounds.
General Stuart had a narrow escape in this charge, his pistol
hung in his holster, and as he was trying to draw it, he received
the fire of barrel after barrel from a Federal cavalryman within
ten paces of him, but fortunately sustained no injury.

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Having failed in this charge the enemy did not attempt
another; the lines remained facing each other, and skirmishing,
while the long thunder of the artillery beyond, indicated the
hotter struggle of Cemetery Hill. Pickett's Virginians, we afterwards
knew, were making their “wild charge” at that moment:
advancing into that gulf of fire from which so few were to return;
Kemper was being shot down; Armistead was falling as
he leaped his horse over the Federal breastworks—the fate of
Gettysburg was being decided.

Night settled down, and still ignorant of the result, Stuart
rode along the whole front where the sharpshooters were still
firing. In the yard of a house there was a dead man lying, I
remember, in a curious position—as men killed in battle often
do—and another blue sharpshooter, who had been summoned
to advance and surrender, was staggering up with his face all
bloody. Such are the trifles which cling to the memory.

Returning through the darkness towards the Heidelburg road,
an amusing discussion took place upon a somewhat interesting
point.

“General,” said one of the staff, “we are travelling in the
wrong direction—this road will lead you straight into the
enemy's lines.”

“No,” was Stuart's reply, “look at the stars.”

“Well, yonder is the North Star.”

“You are certainly mistaken.”

“I am sure I am not.”

“And I am sure you are! However, we can easily decide.”

And the General drew from his pocket a small portable compass
which he had carried with him on the prairies of the West,
when in the U.S. army. The compass overthrew the General,
and vindicated the good judgment of the staff officer. Laughter
followed; the direction of march was changed; a wide ditch
leaped; and we gained the Heidelburg road—the staff pushing
on intent on sleep, a single courier being left with the General.
The sequel was amusing. The General went to sleep in the
saddle: the courier rode on: and the General's horse not recognising
headquarters in the dark, quietly walked on by, and

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nearly carried Major-General Stuart into the cavalry pickets of
the enemy.

These minute details will, I fear, prove less interesting to the
reader than to him who recalls them. The length of the narrative
dictates, for the future, a more rapid summary. The third
day's fight decided the event of Gettysburg, and General Lee fell
back toward the Potomac, not very hotly pursued. Nothing
is more erroneous than the idea that the Southern army was
“demoralized” by the result of the bloody actions of these three
memorable days. Their nerve was unshaken, their confidence
in Lee and themselves unimpaired. Longstreet said truly that
he desired nothing better than for General Meade to attack his
position—that his men would have given the Federal troops a
reception such as they had given Pickett. The stubborn resolution
of the Army of Northern Virginia was thus unbroken—but
the game was played for the time. The army was moving back,
slow and defiant, to the Potomac.

The cavalry protected its flanks and rear, fighting in the
passes of South Mountain, and holding obstinately the ridge in
front of Boonsboro, while General Lee formed his line to cover
the crossing at Falling Waters and Williamsport. Here, near
Boonsboro, Stuart did some of his hardest fighting, and successfully
held his ground, crowning every knoll with the guns
of his horse artillery. When the infantry was in position, the
cavalry retired, and took position on the flanks—the two armies
faced each other, and a battle seemed imminent—when one
morning General Meade discovered that General Lee was on the
south bank of the Potomac.

It is said that the Federal commander designed attacking Lee
that day, against the opinion of his officers. What would have
been the result? That is a difficult question. A humble soldier
of the Southern army may, however, be permitted to say that a
rout
of the army of Northern Virginia, under Lee, never seemed
to him possible. Nor was it ever routed. It was starved, and it
surrendered.

General Lee was thus over with his army, where provisions
and ammunition were obtainable; and the opposing forces

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rested. Then General Meade advanced, his great adversary
made a corresponding movement, and about the first of August
the cavalry were once more posted in Culpeper.

In about six weeks they had marched many hundreds of
miles; fought a number of battles; lost about one-third of their
force by death in action, or disabling wounds; and were again
on the war-harried banks of the Rappahannock.

A few words will terminate this sketch of the summer campaign
of 1863.

Of this great ride with the cavalry through Pennsylvania, the
present writer has preserved recollections rather amusing and
grotesque, than sad or tragic. The anxiety expressed by a fat
lady of Dutch origin, to secure a blue postage stamp with the
head of President Davis upon it, a gentleman whom she evidently
expected to find endued with horns and tail en Diable; the
manner in which an exceedingly pretty damsel in a town
through which the army was retreating, turned her back upon
the writer, as he smiled respectfully upon catching her eye;
turned her back, tossed her head, and “looked daggers;” the
air of hauteur and outraged feeling with which another refused
to lend a coffee-pot, not even melting at the offender's low bow,
and “I will not insist, madam”—these return to memory and
make the recollection of those times more amusing than disagreeable.
We were sore then, but time obliterates pain, and
heals nearly every wound. There were harsh emotions, painful
scenes, and bitter hostility; but there were some of the amenities
of war too; among which I recall the obliging manner in which
Major P—, of the United States cavalry, enabled me to gratify
some lady friends in Virginia.

The Major was brought in to the headquarters—or bivouac,
rather—in a grassy yard near Hagerstown, during the absence
of General Stuart, and whilst the present writer was in

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command. I found him very much of a gentleman; laughed at his
description of the manner in which he was captured—“Your
men snapped a carbine at me, and then `halted' me!”—and
simply took his parole not to attempt escape, after which we lay
down and slept on the grass, the major sharing my blankets.
On the next morning we were perfectly intimate; and hearing
me express a wish to secure some “greenbacks” for the purchase
of small articles in Hagerstown, where Confederate money
would not pass, the major politely pulled out his purse, declaring
that he would exchange dollar for dollar “as he only wished to
have enough of money to buy cigars in Richmond.” The
comedy of the scene which ensued lay in the mutual anxiety
of Major P— and the present writer, lest each should wrong
the other. Each was afraid he would get the advantage of his
companion, and the polite speeches delivered on the occasion
were truly admirable. An equitable arrangement was finally
made. I came into possession of about forty dollars in Federal
money, and with this bought out nearly the whole stock of lace,
ribands, and handkerchiefs of a milliner's store, to the extreme
but suppressed amusement of the young lady behind the counter,
who disinterestedly gave her advice in the selection. With
this big bundle on the pommel of his saddle, the present writer
made his exit from the State of Maryland!

Such, in rapid and discursive, outline, was the march of the
cavalry “to Gettysburg and back again,” in that last year but
one of the great civil war. Scores of miles were passed over,
while the weary cavalry-man who writes this, slept in the saddle.
So, it is no wonder Pennsylvania appears to him to-day
like a land seen in a dream! Gettysburg was, however, a rough
waking, and over that far locality where the fate of the struggle
was decided, a lurid cloud seems to hang, its edges steeped in
blood. “Gettysburg! Gettysburg!” That murmur comes to
the lips of many whose dear ones sleep their last sleep under the
sod there; but this souvenir is sad. Let me remember rather
the gay laugh of Stuart; the voices of Fitz Lee, Hampton, and
their noble comrades; the fun, the frolic, and the adventure of

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the long journey, when so much mirth lit up the dark horizon
zon of war.

It is a hard and brutal business, the trade of war; but the
odd, grotesque, and bizarre mix everywhere with the tears and
the blood. All were mingled in this heavy work of the bustling
year 1863.

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General Meade's retreat from Culpeper, in October, 1863, was
one of the liveliest episodes of the late war. This officer was
not unpopular in the Southern army. Few depredations were
laid to his charge, and he was generally regarded as a fair and
honorable opponent. There was evidently no rhodomontade
about him, and few trumpets were blown in his honour; but
General Lee is said to have declared that he had given him as
much trouble as any Federal general of the war. Of his status
as a soldier, let history speak. The present sketch will show, I
think, that no general ever better understood the difficult art of
coolly retiring without loss, and promptly advancing to his former
position at the right moment. As in other sketches, the
writer will aim rather to present such details and incidents as
convey a clear idea of the actual occurrence, than to indulge in
historical generalization. Often the least trifling of things are
“trifles.”

In October, 1863, General Meade's army was around Culpeper
Court-House, with the advance at Mitchell's Station, on the
Orange road, and General Lee faced him on the south bank of
the Rapidan. One day there came from our signal-station, on
Clarke's Mountain, the message: “General Meade's head-quarters
are at Wallack's, and Pleasanton's at Cumberland, Georgia.

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General Fitz Lee thereupon sent to General Stuart, after the
jocose fashion of “General Fitz,” to ask why Pleasanton had
been sent to “Cumberland, Georgia.” The message should have
been Cumberland George's—the house, that is to say, of the Rev.
Mr. George, in the suburbs of Culpeper Court-House.

Every day, at that time, the whistle of the “Yankee cars,” as
we used to call them, was heard a few miles off, at Mitchell's
Station; and as General Meade was plainly going to advance, it
was obvious that he was going to fall back. It was at this time,
early in October, that “for reasons best known to himself,” General
Lee determined upon a movement through Madison, along
the base of the Blue Ridge, to flank General Meade's right, cut
him off from Manassas, and bring on a general engagement between
the two armies. The plan was a simple one. Ewell and
A. P. Hill were to move out with their corps from the works on
the Rapidan, and marching up that stream, cross into Madison,
leaving Fitz Lee's cavalry division to occupy their places in the
abandoned works, and repulse any assault. Once across the
Upper Rapidan, Ewell and Hill would move toward Madison
Court-House with the rest of Stuart's cavalry on their right flank,
to mask the movement; and, thence pushing on to the Rappahannock,
make for Warrenton, somewhere near which point it
was probable that they would strike General Meade's column on
its retreat: Then a decisive trial of strength in a pitched battle.

The cavalry, by common consent of the army, “did the work”
on this movement—the infantry having few opportunities to become
engaged—and I shall ask the reader to follow “Stuart and
his horsemen.”

I think it was the morning of the 10th of October when, moving
on the right of the long column of Ewell and Hill then
streaming toward Madison Court-House, Stuart came on the exterior
picket of the enemy—their advance force of cavalry, infantry,
and artillery, being near the little village of James City.
The picket on a little stream was driven in, and pushing on to
Thoroughfare Mountain (not to be confounded with that near
Manassas), we ran into a regiment of infantry which had hastily
formed line of battle at the noise of the firing. Gordon, that

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gallant North Carolinian, at once became hotly engaged; but
there was no time to stop long. Stuart took Young's brigade—
he had but two—and, making a detour to the left, charged
straight down upon the enemy's right flank. Cheers, yells, carbines
cracking—and the infantry broke and scattered in the
mountains, dropping large numbers of the newest, brightest, and
handsomest muskets ever handled. The force was declared by
prisoners to have numbered two hundred and fifty, of whom
about twenty were taken. Stuart now pushed on without stopping,
and speedily became engaged with the main force of Federal
cavalry at James City. This force was commanded by General
Kilpatrick, we afterwards discovered, and this gentleman had
been enjoying himself greatly. There was a race-course near
the town where races were held, General Kilpatrick having, it
is said, a favorite mare called “Lively” which he used to run
against a blood horse in his artillery called the “Battery Horse.”
What became of the “Battery Horse” this historian cannot say;
but—to anticipate events—the fate of “Lively” can be stated.
Later in the fall, the general was running “Lively” near Manassas,
when she flew the track, and two men were sent after
her. Neither “Lively” nor the men ever returned. In fact,
some of “Mosby's people” had been unseen spectators of the
race from the adjoining woods, and these gentry took charge
both of the mare and the men sent after her. “I really must
have that mare,” General Stuart said, when he heard the incident,
but her captors retained her.

I am anticipating. General Kilpatrick was in command at
James City, and, drawing up his cavalry on the high ground
beyond, prepared to receive Stuart's attack. None was made.
It was not a part of the programme. Stuart's orders were to
keep the enemy off the infantry flanks, and this could best be
accomplished by remaining quiet. So, every demonstration was
made; lines of sharpshooters were advanced, our artillery
opened, and—no attack was made. Thus the hours passed on.
Shells raced across the little valley. Carbines cracked. An outside
spectator would have said that the opponents were afraid of
each other. The truth was that General Stuart was playing his

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own game, and his adversary did not understand it. At last,
even the firing ceased. Fronting each other in line of battle, the
opponents waited in silence for some movement. The stillness
was, however, broken suddenly by an incident, amusing, but by
no means agreeable, at least from our point of view. General
Stuart was lying down, surrounded by his staff and escort, with
his flag floating on the top of the hill, when, behind a fringe of
woods, near the Federal cavalry drawn up in long line of battle
on the opposite plateau, was seen a puff of white smoke. A roar
followed, then the whistle of a shell, and this polite visitor fell
and burst in the very midst of the group. It was a percussion
shell, and exploded as it struck, tearing up a deep hole and
vanishing, without injuring a single individual. As the present
writer was covered with the dirt where he lay, and found by
inspection that it had been a “line shot,” striking within three
or four feet of his head, the incident was highly pleasing. The
shell was followed by others, but no harm was done by them,
and it is not necessary to say that the friendly group, with the
flag floating so temptingly above it, deployed to the right and
left, laughing, and not displeased at the result of the first “good
shot.”

At night the Federal cavalry were still there, and Stuart still
remained quiet. His headquarters that night were at Mr.
H—'s where that brave spirit, General Gordon, of the cavalry,
came to see him. It is a melancholy pleasure to recall the gallant
face of Gordon, now that he is dead; to remember his
charming smile, his gay humour; the elegant little speech which
he made as he gallantly presented a nosegay to the fair Miss
H—, bowing low as he did so amid friendly laughter. When
he fell he left behind him no braver soldier or kindlier gentleman.

At dawn Stuart was again in the saddle, pressing forward
upon the retiring enemy.

Ewell and Hill had moved unseen to their position on the

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Sperryville road, thanks to the stand of Stuart at James City;
and now, for the first time, the enemy seemed to understand the
nature of the blow about to be struck. General Meade had put
his army in motion toward the Rappahannock; and, as the
advance force in our front retired, Stuart pressed them closely.
It is hard to say whether this great soldier was better in falling
back or in advancing. When he retired he was the soul of
stubborn obstinacy. When he advanced he was all fire, dash,
and impetus. He was now following up a retreating enemy,
and he did not allow the grass to grow under his feet.

Below Griffinsburg the rear-guard of the Federal cavalry was
attacked and driven; and Stuart was pushing on, when the presence
of a Federal infantry regiment in the woods to his right
was announced. To this he paid no attention, but drove on,
firing upon their cavalry, and soon the good judgment of this
was shown. The infantry regiment heard the firing, feared
being cut off, and double-quicked toward the rear. They
reached the fields on Stone House Mountain as quickly as Stuart,
moving parallel to his column, and suddenly their line appeared.
I have rarely seen General Stuart more excited. It was a rich
prize, that regiment, and it appeared in his grasp! But, unfortunately,
his column was not “up.” He was leading a mere
advance guard, and that was scattered. Every available staff-officer
and courier was hurried back for the cavalry, and the
“Jefferson Company,” Lieutenant Baylor, got up first, and
charged straight at the flank of the infantry. They were suddenly
halted, formed line of battle, and the bright muskets fell
to a level like a single weapon. The cavalry company received
the fire at thirty yards, but pressed on, and would doubtless have
ridden over the infantry, now scattering in great disorder, but
for an impassable ditch. Before they could make a detour to
avoid it, the Federal infantry had scattered, “every man for himself,”
in the woods, dropping guns, knapsacks, and blankets.

The huge camps at Stone House Mountain, as afterwards
around Culpeper Court House, were a sort of “Arabian Nights”
of wonder to the gray people. The troops had fixed themselves
in the most admirable manner to defy the coming winter.

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Excellent stone chimneys, of every form; cabins, stoves, tables,
magazines, books, wine and rum-bottles (empty), oil-cloths,
coats, shoes, arms—everything was scattered about. Harpers'
Magazine
seemed to be a favourite; and full files of papers
might have been collected in the deserted cabins. From this
abode of the dolce far niente the rude hand of war, in the shape
of Stuart's cavalry, had pushed them.

Stuart continued to press the enemy toward the Court-House;
and there their cavalry had made a stand. As to the infantry, it
was nowhere visible in the immense camps around the place—
those camps which contained, like the first, only rubbish. Not a
wagon, ambulance, or piece of artillery, I believe, was captured.
General Meade had swept clean. There were even very few
empty boxes.

On “Cumberland George's” hill, the Federal artillery fought
hard for a time, inflicting some loss; but Gordon was sent round
by the Rixeyville Road to the left; Stuart advanced in front;
and the enemy fell back toward Brandy. The reader will remember
that General Fitz Lee had been left on the Lower Rapidan
to repulse any assault in that direction, and the expected assault
had been made. I think it was General Buford who attacked
him; but the attack was unsuccessful, and as the enemy fell back
Fitz Lee pressed forward on the track of the retreating column
toward Brandy. We now heard the thunder of his guns upon
the right as he pushed on toward the Rappahannock, and everything
seemed to be concentrating in the neighbourhood of Fleetwood
Hill, the scene of the sanguinary conflict of the 9th of June
preceding. There the great struggle, in fact, took place—Stuart
pressing the main column on their line of retreat from above,
General Fitz Lee pushing as vigorously after the strong force
which had fallen back from the Rappahannock. As it is not
the design of the writer to attempt any “battle pictures” in this
discursive sketch, he omits a detailed account of the hard fight
which followed. It was among the heaviest of the war, and for
a time nothing was seen but dust, smoke, and confused masses
reeling to and fro; nothing was heard but shouts, cheers, yells,
and orders, mixed with the quick bang of carbines and the clash

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of sabres—above all, and the continuous thunder of the artillery.
It was as “mixed up” as any fight of the war, and at one time
General Stuart, with Colonel Peyton, of General Lee's staff, and
one or two other officers, found himself cut off by the enemy.
He got out, joined his column to Fitz Lee's, and charging the
Federal forces, cavalry and infantry—the latter being drawn up
on Fleetwood Hill—pressed them back to the Rappahannock,
which they hastened to cross. General Meade had thus retreated
from Culpeper, but it was the “cleanest” retreat on record, as
far as the present writer's observation extended. He imitated it
in December at Mine Run.

General Lee had meanwhile advanced with his infantry toward
Warrenton Springs, still aiming to cut General Meade off from
Manassas. On the next day commenced the trial of skill
between the two commanders. General Meade's cavalry had
been so rudely hustled by Stuart, and the cordon placed by the
latter along the Rappahannock was so effective, that the Federal
commander was absolutely in the dark as to his great adversary's
position and designs. On the afternoon of this—next—day, therefore,
a Federal force consisting of a corps of infantry and two
brigades of cavalry, was moved across the Rappahannock where
the Orange railway crosses it, and this force pushed straight
toward the Court-House. The design was evidently to ascertain
if General Lee was in that vicinity, and the column rapidly advanced.
Near Brandy it encountered what seemed to be Stuart's
entire cavalry. At various openings in the woods the heads of
different columns
were seen, calmly awaiting an attack, and the
Federal infantry and cavalry speedily formed line of battle, prepared
for vigorous engagement. They would scarcely have
given themselves so much trouble if they had known that the
entire force in their front consisted of about one hundred and eighty
men,
with one gun under Colonel Rosser, as a sort of grand
picket guard. He had arranged detachments of eight or ten men
as above indicated, at openings in the woods, to produce the impression
of several heavy columns; and it was not until they attacked
him that they discovered the ruse. The attack once made,
all further concealment was impossible. Rosser's one hundred

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and eighty men, and single piece of artillery, were rapidly driven
back by the enemy; and his gun was now roaring from the high
ground just below the Court House, when the clatter of hoofs
was heard upon the streets of the village. It was the gay and
gallant P. M. B. Young, of Georgia, who had been left with his
brigade near James City, and now came to Rosser's assistance.
Young passed through the Court-House at a trot, hastened to
the scene of action, and, dismounting his entire brigade, deployed
them as sharpshooters, and made a sudden and determined
attack upon the enemy. This vigorous movement seems to have
completely deceived them. Night was now falling; they could
not make out the numbers or character of Young's force; and
an attack as bold as his must surely proceed from a heavy force
of infantry! Was General Lee still at the place, with one of his
corps d'armee? If this idea entered the minds of the enemy, it
must have been encouraged by Young's next move. He had
held his ground without flinching; and now, as night descended,
he ordered camp fires to be built along two miles of front, and
bringing up his splendid brass band, played the “Bonnie Blue
Flag” and “Dixie” with defiant animation. This ruse seemed
to decide the matter; the Federal commander made no further
effort to advance; and in the morning there was not a Federal
soldier on the south bank of the Rappahannock. Their corps
of infantry and two brigades of cavalry had “fallen back in
good order:” and the laughing Young remained master of the
situation.

Stuart had pushed on, meanwhile, toward Warrenton Springs,
and just as the fight above described commenced, a gallant affair
took place above. The enemy were attacked in the town of Jeffersonton,
and after a hot fight forced back to Warrenton
Springs, where the Jefferson Company again distinguished itself.
The attempt was made to charge over the bridge, in face of the
enemy's fire. In the middle of the structure the column suddenly
recoiled, and retreated. The cause of this movement was
soon discovered. Several of the planks had been torn up in the
flooring of the bridge, and to eross was impossible. The Jefferson
Company, however, did not abandon their work. They

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galloped to the ford, Stuart placed himself at their head, and, in the
face of a heavy and determined fire from a double line of Federal
sharpshooters, they charged across. The Federal force gave
way before them, and crossing his whole column Stuart pushed
on upon the track of the enemy toward Warrenton, followed by
the infantry, who had witnessed the feats of their cavalry breth
ren with all the satisfaction of “outside spectators.”

In Jeffersonton and at Warrenton Springs many brave fellows
had fallen, and sad scenes were presented. Lieutenant Chew
had fought from house to house in the first named place, and in
a mansion of the village this gallant officer lay dying, with a bullet
through his breast. At Mr. M—'s, near the river, young
Marshall, of Fauquier, a descendant of the Chief Justice, was
lying on a table, covered with a sheet—dead, with a huge, bloody
hole in the centre of his pale forehead; while in a bed opposite
lay a wounded Federal officer. In the fields around were dead
men, dead horses, and abandoned arms.

The army pushed on to Warrenton, the cavalry still in
advance, and on the evening of the next day Stuart rapidly
advanced with his column to reconnoitre toward Catlett's Station,
the scene of his great raid in August, 1862, when he captured
General Pope's coat and official papers. The incident which followed
was one of the most curious of the war.

Stuart had just passed Auburn, when General Gordon, commanding
the rear of his column, sent him word that a heavy
force of the enemy's infantry had closed in behind him, completely
cutting him off from General Lee. As at the same
moment an army corps of Federal infantry was discovered moving
across his front, General Stuart awoke to the unpleasant
consciousness that his little force of cavalry was securely hemmed
in between overpowering masses of the enemy, who, as soon as
they discovered the presence of the audacious interlopers, would
unquestionably attack and cut them to pieces.

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The “situation” was now in the highest degree critical. In
fact, Stuart had managed to get his command inclosed between
the two retreating columns of General Meade—infantry, cavalry,
and artillery—and these columns, as they moved across his front
and rear, were converging toward Bristoe, near Manassas. The
only hope of safety lay in complete concealment of his presence,
and General Stuart issued the most stringent orders to his troops
that no noise of any description should be made during the night.
There was little necessity to impress this upon the command.
Within a few hundred yards of them, in front and in rear, were
moving the huge columns of the enemy; the feet of the infantry
shuffling, the hoofs of the cavalry clattering, the artillery wheels
and chains rolling and jingling, and above the whole the stifled
hum of an army on the march. The men sat motionless and
silent in the saddle, listening, throughout the long hours of the
night. No man spoke; no sound was heard from human lips
as the little force remained perdu in the darkness. But the
“dumb animals” were not equally intelligent, and more than
once some thoughtless horse neighed or some indiscreet donkey
in the artillery uttered his discordant notes. In the noise of the
Federal retreat these sounds, however, were not observed, and
thus the night wore on and daylight came.

The first glimmer showed General Stuart that the Federal forces
had nearly all passed. In fact the rear force had halted within a
few hundred yards of his position and were cooking their breakfasts.
Now was his opportunity not only to extricate himself,
but to take vengeance for the long hours of anxiety and peril.
Picked men had been sent during the night to pass through the
advancing column and announce the critical position of affairs to
General Lee, and Stuart had suggested a vigorous infantry
attack upon the enemy's left flank while he attacked their right.
Not hearing from General Lee, he took the initiative. At dawn
he put his artillery in position, drew up his cavalry, and opened
a thundering fire upon the Federal troops; knocking over their
coffee-pots, and scattering them in wild confusion. They rallied,
however, and made a vigorous attack—a severe though brief
engagement following—but Stuart repulsed this assault, slowly

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fell back, and soon his little command was extricated from its
peril, Altogether this was a curious affair. It was not attractive,
however “romantic.” One of the bravest infantry officers
of the army, who accompanied the expedition as an amateur,
declared, laughing, that he was “done with the cavalry—the
infantry was enough for him thereafter.”

Meanwhile General Lee was pressing the retiring enemy toward
Bristoe; Stuart on the right, and General Fitz Lee moving on
their left, through New Baltimore. There was some fatal blunder,
however, in the execution of General Lee's orders, or else
some obstacle which could not be overcome. General Meade
pushed on and crossed Broad Run, making with his main body
for Manassas. When the Southern advance force reached Bristoe
they found the main Federal army gone. A strong force,
however, remained, and this was drawn up behind a long railroad
embankment serving admirably as a breastwork. The men
had only to lie down upon the slope, rest their muskets on the
track of the railroad, and sweep the open field in their front with
a shower of balls if the Confederates attacked. The attack was
made—straight across open ground, down a slope, right on the
embankment. The consequence was that Cooke's brigade, which
was ordered to make the attempt, was nearly annihilated, the General
falling among the first at the head of his troops: and, advanceing
against the line to his left, the enemy captured, I believe, nine
pieces of artillery. After this exploit they quietly retired across
Broad Run, and rejoined the main column. A worse managed
affair than that fight at Bristoe did not take place during the
war. “Well, well, General,” Lee is reported to have said to the
officer who essayed to explain the occurrence, “bury these poor
men, and let us say no more about it.” General Meade was
behind Bull Run fortifying.

Thus terminated General Lee's vigorous attempt to bring on a
pitched battle with Meade. That was his design, as it was General
Meade's design in coming over to Mine Run in the succeeding
December. Both schemes failed. From the high ground
beyond Bristoe, Lee, surrounded by his generals, reconnoitred
the retiring rear-guard of the enemy, and issued his orders for

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the army to retrace its steps to the Rappahannock. The cavalry
had not, however, finished their work. The fine October weather
was admirable for active movement, and Stuart pushed
straight on to Manassas, harassing the Federal forces as they
crossed Bull Run. At Blackburn's Ford, General Fitz Lee had
a brisk engagement, which drove the Federal cavalry across;
and, near Yates's Ford, General Stuart charged over a barricade
at the head of his horsemen, scattered the Federal sharpshooters,
and drove to and across the stream their cavalry and artillery.

An odd incident marked this occasion. It was about dusk
when the enemy began to retire from our front, their artillery
roaring on the right, but taking position after position, each
nearer Bull Run. General Stuart was within about four hundred
yards of the Federal guns, in the edge of the woods, surrounded
by his staff, escort, etc., one of whom had just taken up a dead
man before him to carry off. At this moment, among the figures
moving to and fro, one—apparently a member of the staff or
escort—was seen quietly riding out into the field, as if to gain a
better view of the Federal artillery. “Who is that?” said General
Stuart, pointing to the figure, indistinct in the dusk. “One
of the couriers,” some one replied. “No!” returned Stuart,
“halt him!” Two men immediately galloped after the suspected
individual, who was easily, carelessly, and quietly edging
off; and he speedily returned between them. Behold! he wore
under his oilcloth a blue coat! “What do you belong to?”
asked Stuart. “The First Maine, sir,” responded the other with
great nonchalance. In fact, the “gentleman from Maine” had
got mixed up with us when the column went over the barricade;
and, wrapped in his oilcloth, had listened to the remarks of
Stuart and his staff, until he thought he could get away. The
quick eye of General Stuart, however, penetrated his disguise,
and he was a prisoner.

It was now night, and operations were over for the day. The
retreat had been admirably managed. General Meade had carried
off everything. We did not capture a wagon wheel. All
was beyond Bull Run. The present writer here records his
own capture, viz. one oilcloth, one feed of oats, found in the

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road, and one copy of Harper's Magazine, full of charming pictures
of rebels, running, or being annihilated, in every portion
of the country. On the next morning, Stuart left Fitz Lee
in front of Bull Run, to oppose any advance of the Federal cavalry
there, and, taking Hampton's division, set out through a
torrent of rain to make a flank movement against General
Meade's right beyond the Little River Turnpike. He had intended
to cross at Sudley Ford, but coming upon the Federal
cavalry near Groveton, a fight ensued, and the column could
not cross there without having the movement unmasked. Stuart
accordingly turned to the left; made a detour through Gainsville;
and advancing, amid a violent storm, bivouacked that
night beyond the Little Catharpin. The General on this day
kept his entire staff and surroundings in great good-humour, by
his songs and laughter, which only seemed to grow more jovial
as the storm became more violent. I hope the reader will not
regard this statement as “unworthy of the dignity of history.”
Fortunately I am not writing history; only a poor little sketch
of a passage in the life of a very great man; and it has seemed
to me that all concerning him is interesting. Pardon! august
muse of history, that dealest in protocols and treaties! We
pass on.

The weather was charming, as on the next morning the column
advanced toward “Frying-Pan Church,” and the troopers subsisted
delightfully upon chinquepins, chestnuts, persimmons, and
wild grapes. Reaching a magnificent apple-tree, weighed down
with fruit as red as carnations, the men, with the fullest permission
from the hospitable owner, threw themselves upon it,
and soon the whole was stripped, the soldiers going on their way
rejoicing. Never have I seen more splendid weather than those
October days, or more beautiful tints in the foliage. Pity that
the natural red of the birch and dogwood was not enough without
blood! Stuart advanced rapidly, and near Frying-Pan
Church came upon and at once attacked the Second corps of
Federal infantry. A long ling of sharpshooters was formed,
which advanced on foot in line of battle. The artillery roared,
and at first the Federal troops gave ground. The aspect of

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affairs speedily changed, however, and a strong Federal force,
advancing in order of battle, made it necessary for Stuart to
withdraw. This was done at once, with great deliberation, and
at the “Recall” of the bugle the skirmishers slowly moved back
and gained the woods. A spectacle which aroused the good-humoured
laughter of those who witnessed it, was a staff officer
carrying off in his arms a young lady of about fourteen from a
house which the enemy were about to have within their lines.
This was done at the suggestion of the General; and although
the bullets were flying and the officer's horse was “dancing upon
all four feet,” the young lady declared herself “not afraid,” and
did not change colour at the bullets. If this meets the fair girl's
eye she is informed that the officer has still the gray who came
near unseating her as he jumped the fence, and that his rider
has not forgotten the smiling little face, but remembers it with
admiration and pleasure!

That night General Stuart was moving steadily back by the
same route which he had pursued in advancing, and on the next
day he had reached the vicinity of Bucklands.

The army had fallen back, tearing up the road, and General
Stuart now prepared to follow, the campaign having come to an
end. He was not, however, to be permitted to fall back without
molestation, and his command was to be present at the “Buckland
Races.” This comic episode will be briefly described, and
the event related just as it occurred, without embellishment or
exaggeration. General Kilpatrick, commanding the Federal
cavalry, had been very much outraged, it would appear, at the
hasty manner in which Stuart had compelled him to evacuate
Culpeper; and he now felt an ardent desire, before the campaign
ended, to give the great cavalier a “Roland for his Oliver.”
With about 3,000 cavalry he accordingly crossed Bull Run,
following upon Stuart's track as the latter fell back; and soon
he had reached the little village of Bucklands, not far from New
Baltimore.

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Stuart had disappeared; but these disappearances of Stuart,
like those of Jackson, were always dangerous. In fact, a ruse
was about to be practised upon General Kilpatrick, who was
known to want caution, and this ruse was of the simplest description.
Stuart had arranged that he should retire before Kilpatrick
as he advanced, until the Federal column was beyond Bucklands—
then Fitz Lee, who had fallen back from Manassas on
the line of the Orange Railroad, would have an opportunity to
fall upon the enemy's flank and rear. The sound of Fitz Lee's
guns would be the signal for Stuart to face about and attack;
Kilpatrick would thus be assailed in front and flank at the same
instant, and the result would probably be satisfactory. This
plan was carried out exactly as Stuart had arranged. General
Kilpatrick reached Bucklands, and is said to have stated while
dining at a house there that “he would not press Stuart so hard,
but he (Stuart) had boasted of driving him (Kilpatrick) out of
Culpeper, and he was going to give him no rest.” It is said
that General Kilpatrick had scarcely uttered this threat when
the roar of artillery was heard upon his left flank, and this was
speedily reëchoed by similar sounds in his front. In fact, General
Fitz Lee had carried out his half of the programme, and
Stuart hastened to do the rest. At the sound of General Lee's
artillery Stuart faced about, formed his command in three
columns, and charged straight upon the enemy's front, while
General Fitz Lee fell upon his flanks. The consequence was a
complete rout of the Federal cavalry, who scattered in every
direction, throwing down their arms as they fled, and the flight
of many, it is said, was not checked until they reached Alexandria.
General Custer's headquarter wagons and papers were
captured—as happened, I believe, to the same officer twice subsequently—
and the pursuing force, under Kilpatrick, gave
Stuart no more trouble as he fell back. This engagement
afforded huge enjoyment to the Southern cavalry, as it was almost
bloodless, and resembled a species of trap into which their opponents
fell. Nothing amuses troops more than this latter circumstance,
and the affair continues to be known among the disbanded
troopers of Stuart, as the “Buckland Races.”

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This engagement ended the campaign as far as the cavalry
were concerned, and it was the movements of this arm that I
proposed to outline. These were uniformly successful, while
those of the infantry, from what appeared to be some fatality,
were regularly unsuccessful. While the cavalry drove their
opponents before them at Stone House Mountain, Culpeper
Court-House, Brandy, Warrenton Springs, Bull Run, and Bucklands,
the infantry failed to arrest the enemy at Auburn; were
repulsed at Bristoe with the loss of several guns; and now, on
the Rappahannock, was to occur that ugly affair at the railroad
bridge, in which two brigades of General Lee's army were surprised,
overpowered, and captured almost to a man. Such is the
curiously mingled “warp and woof” of war. It was the Army
of Northern Virginia,
led by Ewell and Hill, with General Lee
commanding in person, which sustained these losses, and failed
in the object which the great soldier declared he had in view—
to cut off and fight a pitched battle with General Meade. The
movements of this latter commander entitled him to high praise,
and he exhibited throughout the brief campaign a vigour and
acumen which only belong to the thorough soldier.

Such is an outline of some incidents in this rapid campaign;
this hasty movement backward and forward on the great chessboard
of war. The discursive sketch here laid before the reader
may convey some idea of the occurrences as they actually took
place. From the “official reports” the grave Muse of History
will sum up the results, generalizing upon the importance or
non-importance of the events. This page aims at no generalization
at all, but simply to show how Stuart and Fitz Lee, with
their brave comrades, did the work assigned to them in those
bright October days of 1863.

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Nothing is more curious than the manner in which a sudden
and unexpected attack imposes upon the recipients thereof; and
it is safe to say that none but the best troops, trained and disciplined
to stand firm under all contingencies, can be counted on
in such moments of emergency.

The following incident will prove the truth of this assertion.
It is not related “for the greater glory” of the Southern arms,
so much as to present a curious illustration of the effect upon
the human mind of a sudden surprise.

A word first of the doughty sabreur who figured as hero on
the occasion, my friend, Major R—, of the C. S. A.

The Major is stout, rosy, of a portly figure, and from his appearance
you would not take him for a very active or dangerous
personage. But he is both. No man delights more in movement,
adventure, and combat. No man sits a horse with more
of the true cavalry ease. You may see from the manner in
which he handles his sabre that he is master of that weapon;
and in the charge he is a perfect thunderbolt. He fingers his
pistol and makes the barrels revolve with admirable grace; his
salute with the sabre is simply perfection; his air, as he listens
to an order from his superior officer, says plainly, “All I wish
is to know what you want me to do, General—if it can be done
it will be done.” This air does not deceive. It is well known
to the Major's friends that his motto is, “Neck or nothing.” At

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Mine Run, when General Meade confronted the Southern lines,
the worthy said to me, “A soldier's duty is to obey his orders;
and if General Stuart told me to charge the Yankee army by
myself, I would do it. He would be responsible.”

It will be seen from the above sketch of the gallant Major,
that he is a thorough soldier. In fact he loves his profession,
and is not satisfied with performing routine duty. He is fond
of volunteering on forlorn hopes, and in desperate emergencies—
when he cannot get at the blue-coats for any length of time—
he pines.

This mood came to him in the fall of 1862. Quiet had
reigned along the lines so long, that he grew melancholy. His
appetite did not fail, as far as his friends could perceive, but
something obviously rested on his mind. He was rusting, and
was conscious of the process. “Why don't they come out and
fight?” the Major seemed to ask with his calm, sad eyes. They
were in Virginia for the purpose of “crushing the rebellion,”—
why didn't they set about the work?

These questions meeting with no satisfactory response, Major
R—determined himself to take the initiative, and see if he
could not bring on a little fight, all on his private account. He
would thus relieve his bosom of the perilous stuff which preyed
upon his heart. It had, indeed, become absolutely necessary to
his peace of mind to come into collision with his friends across
the way, and he set about devising the best plan for arriving at
his object.

The Southern cavalry to which the Major was attached, at
that time occupied the county of Culpeper, and picketed along
the Rappahannock. So did the enemy's horsemen, and the
Federal pickets were stationed on the southern bank at every
ford. This was the case at Warrenton Springs, where a bridge,
afterwards destroyed, spanned the Rappahannock; and at this
point Major R—determined to bring on the little affair which
had become so necessary to his happiness. He intended to combine
pleasure with business by visiting some young ladies at a
hospitable mansion not far from the bridge; and having thus
laid out his programme he proceeded to execute it, and “all

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alone by himself” attack the picket guard of some twenty of
the enemy.

Behold the Major now in warlike panoply—that is to say, in
fine gray dress coat with burnished buttons (for the eyes of
Venus after the conflict with Mars); pistol carefully loaded, in
holster on his right side; and sabre in excellent order, jingling
against his top boots. It was a saying of the worthy, that he
“generally kept his arms in good order,” and on this occasion
nothing was left to be desired. His pistol revolved at the touch,
with a clear ringing click; and you could see your face in his
sabre blade. Thus accoutred, and mounted on a good, active
horse, he set off from Hazel river, and making a detour around
Jeffersonton, came to an elevation in rear of Mr.—'s house,
where he stopped to reconnoitre.

The Federal picket—of nineteen men, as he afterwards discovered—
was at the bridge; and in the yard of the mansion
were two videttes, with their horses tied to the trees under which
they were lying. Whether he could succeed in “driving in”
the whole picket was problematical, but the videttes were pretty
sure game. He would either run them off or capture them.

With the Major execution followed conception rapidly. Pushing
boldly over the crest from behind which he had made his
reconnoissance, he charged across the field at a thundering gallop,
whirling his burnished sabre around his head, yelling in a manner
that was truly awful; and shouting as he rode to a supposititious
squadron:

“Charge! charge! cut down every man!”

So portentous was the reverberating shout of onset from the
lips of the Major, that the videttes started to their feet, and
clutched the bridles of their horses instantly. As the warlike
figure, surrounded by the brilliant lightning of the flashing sabre,
swept on, the videttes probably saw at least a squadron of
“Rebel cavalry” in the dust which rose behind; and hastily
mounting, darted away, pursued by the triumphant Major, whose
yells were now more tremendous than ever.

Across the broad field, past the house, on toward the bridge,
galloped the furious assailant, bent on striking terror to the

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enemy's hearts, and successfully completing his adventure
Before him fled the frightened videttes—their movements ac
celerated by several balls, which issued from the Major's pistol,
and whistled by their ears. On toward the bridge, and into the
midst of the picket fled the videttes; and as the Major's shouts,
and vociferous orders to his cavalry to charge, and let no one
escape, resounded nearer, the pickets, too, mounted in hot haste,
and clattered across the bridge, pursued by the Major's pistol
shots.

In vain did the officer in charge of the picket-post shout to his
men:

“Halt! halt! Shoot down the rascal! Shoot him down I
say! There's only one of them!”

His voice was unheard or his order unheeded. The picket
was composed of stuff less soldierly than their officer, and would
not obey him. Before their vivid imaginations rose at least a
squadron of Confederate cavarly, sweeping on to ride over them,
sword in hand.

The result was that Major R—in ten minutes had possession
of the bridge, and sat his horse defiantly in the middle of
it. He then amused himself by sending a few parting shots
after the demoralized picket, and having performed this agreeable
duty rode back to the house of Mr.—, laughing low in
his peculiar way; his breast completely lightened of the oppressive
weight which had so long weighed upon it.

At Mr.—'s he met with a triumphant reception; was
greeted with a perfect ovation. The young ladies of the mansion
were crazy almost with delight at the manner in which they
had been delivered from the presence of their enemies; and
when the hero of the occasion made his appearance they met
him as women only can meet their deliverers—with smiles such
as shine rarely for the poor “civilian.” After all it is something
to be a soldier. The trade is hard, but the feminine eye has a
peculiar brightness when it rests on the sons of Mars!—of Mars,
proverbially the favourite of Venus!

The Major was an old soldier, and in no hurry to depart. He
counted on the extent of the “scare” he had given the enemy,

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and quietly enjoyed himself in the charming society of his hostesses.
He had once more become “excellent company.” The
smile had returned to his lips, the light to his eyes. That
melancholy which had made his friends uneasy had quite disappeared,
and the Major was “himself again”—that is to say, the
gayest and most delightful of companions.

When, rising slowly and carelessly, he bade his friendly entertainers
good-bye, he was again happy. He came back to camp,
smiling, amiable, the soul of sweetness and cheerfulness. I saw
him. He was absolutely radiant. His eloquent eye beamed
brightly; his countenance was charming; his movements energetic
and elastic; the fullest satisfaction was apparent in every
lineament of his face. His gay and friendly smile seemed to
say, “I went at nineteen of them; ran them off; held the bridge
against them; had an excellent supper, a delightful talk—I am
happy!”

Such was the gay little comedy which I heard from the family
of Mr.—, as I sat upon his porch and conversed with them
one day. The narrative is precisely true in every particular,
and has always impressed me as a curious illustration of the
effect of “surprises” upon troops—of the enormous power exerted
by the human imagination.

-- --

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In carelessly looking over an old portfolio yesterday—October
31, 1866—I found among other curious records of the war a
rude, discoloured scrap of paper, written in pencil, and bearing
date October 31, 1862.

Four years, day for day, had passed, since those pencil marks
were traced. Four years! not a long time, you may say, in the
life of man. But longest of long years—most snail-like in their
movement—most terrible for that delay which makes the stoutest
heart grow sick, were those four twelvemonths between October,
1862, and October, 1866. The larger portion of the period
was spent in hoping—the rest of it in despairing.

But I wander from the subject of this sketch. The paper
found in my portfolio contained the following words, written, as
I have said, in pencil:

Mountsville, October 31, 1862.

“I hereby bind myself, on my word of honour, not to take up
arms against the Confederate States, or in any manner give aid
and comfort to the Federal cause, until I am regularly exchanged.

“L.—.Gove,
Captain—.”

I read this paper, and then went back and read it over again.
A careless observer would have seen in it only a simple and
very hastily written parole. Read at one instant, it would have

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been forgotten in the next—a veritable leaf of autumn, dry and
worthless.

For me it contained much more than was written on it. I did
not throw it aside. I read it over a third time, and it made a
dolorous impression on my heart. For that paper, written by
myself four years ago, and signed by a dying man whose hand
staggered as it traversed the sheet, leaving the name of the writer
almost illegible, his full official rank unrecorded—that paper
brought back to my memory a day near Aldie, when it was my
sorrowful duty to parole a brother human being in articulo
mortis.

“A brother human being, do you say? He was only a
Yankee!” some one may object. No—he was my brother,
and yours, reader, whether you wore blue or gray. Did you
wear the gray, then? So did I. Did you hate the invaders of
Virginia? So did I. You may have been able to see this
enemy die in agony, and not pity him. I was not. And the
proof is, that the sight of the paper which his faint hand touched
as he drew his last breath, has struck me wofully, and blotted
out a part of the autumn sunshine yonder on the mountains.

I have nothing to reproach myself with—the reader shall
judge of that—but this poor rough scrap of paper with its
tremulous signature moves me all the same.

It was in the last days of October, 1862. McClellan had followed
Lee to Sharpsburg; fought him there; refitted his army;
recrossed the Potomac, and was rapidly advancing toward Warrenton,
where the fatal fiat from Washington was to meet him,
“Off with his head! So much for Buckingham.”

But in these last days of October the wind had not yet wafted
to him the decree of the civilians. He was pressing on in
admirable order, and Lee had promptly broken up his camps
upon the Opequon to cross the Blue Ridge at Chester's Gap, and
interpose himself between McClellan and the Rapidan.

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The infantry moved; the cavalry followed, or rather marched
to guard the flank.

Stuart crossed the Shenandoah at Castleman's; the column
moved through Snicker's Gap; then from the eastern slopes of
the Blue Ridge were seen the long trains of McClellan in the
distance, winding toward Middleburg and Aldie.

In front of these trains we knew very well that we would find
the Federal cavalry under that able soldier, General Bayard, if
he did not find us. For we had trains also, and it was more
than probable that Bayard would strike at them through the
passes of the Ridge. To prevent him from so doing it seemed
most advisable to carry the war into Africa by a blow at him,
and Stuart moved on without pausing toward Bloomfield. This
village was passed; we reached the little hamlet of Union, where
the people told us, with what truth I know not, that a party of
the enemy had just ridden through, firing right and left upon
citizens and children; then pushing on, in the splendid autumn
sunshine, the brigade—Fitz Lee's, commanded by the gallant
Wickham—reached the vicinity of Mountsville.

Stuart was riding gaily at the head of his horsemen, when
Wickham galloped up from the advance guard, and announced
that a heavy picket force was camped at Mountsville, visible
through the lofty trees upon its hill.

“Charge it!” was the General's reply; and pushing on, he
was there almost as soon as the advance guard.

They dashed upon the camp, or bivouac rather, with shouts;
bang! bang! bang! from the carbines told that the blue and
gray people had come into collision: and then the cheers of the
Southerners indicated that they were driving in the picket force
upon the main body.

In a moment we had reached the spot, and in a field were the
hastily abandoned accoutrements of the Federal cavalry. Saddles,
blankets, oil-cloths, carbines, sabres, and coats were scattered
everywhere. Upon the ground, a bright red object glittered
in the sunshine—it was the flag, or guidon of the enemy,
abandoned like the rest. The Federal picket force, consisting
of the First Rhode Island Cavalry, between seventy-five and one

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hundred in number, had disappeared as a handful of dry leaves
disappear, swept away by the wind.

The Southerners pursued with shouts and carbine shots—but
officers and men, bending from the saddle, caught upon the points
of their sabres, as they passed at full speed, those precious
“quartermaster stores,” blankets, oil-cloths, so scarce in the
poverty-stricken Confederacy. The present writer was almost
destitute on the last day of October—on the first day of November
he was rich. His cavalier outfit had been reinforced by an
excellent regulation blanket, heavy and double: and a superb
india-rubber poncho, on which was inscribed the name “Lougee.”
If the original owner of that fine military cloak survives, I beg
to express my hope that he did not suffer, in the winter nights
of 1862, for want of it.

The Federal camp had vanished, as I have said, as though
carried away by the wind. The carbine shots were heard receding
still toward Aldie—prisoners began to come back toward
the rear. The name of another member of the First Rhode Island
I can give. A young attaché of General Stuart's staff had captured
a stout animal, and while leading him, was suddenly saluted
by the words, “There is Brown's horse!” from a Federal prisoner
passing. Brown's horse travelled afterwards extensively, and
visited the low country of North Carolina. Most erratic of lives
for men and animals is the military life. You know whence you
come, not at all whither you go!

These trifles have diverted me from the main subject of the
present sketch. I approach that subject with reluctance, for the
picture to be drawn is a sad one. It is nothing to record the
gay or comic incidents of other times—to let the pen glide,
directed by the memory, when the lips are smiling and the heart
is gay. To record the sad events, however, the blood, the tears—
believe me, that is different.

I was pushing on, when a groan from the roadside drew my
eyes in that direction. I looked and saw a man lying on his back,
writhing to and fro, upon the grass. Some cavalrymen had
stopped, and were looking at him curiously.

“Who is that?” I asked.

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“The Yankee captain, sir,” replied one of the men.

“The Captain commanding the picket?”

“Yes, sir; when his men ran, he mounted his horse to keep
from being captured. The horse was unbridled—the Captain
could not guide him with the halter, and he ran away. Then
one of our men rode up close and shot him—the horse jumped
the fence and threw him—he looks like he was dying.”

“Poor fellow! but I suppose he is only wounded. Look
after him.”

And I went on to catch up with General Stuart, who had
ridden on in advance.

Two hundred yards from the spot I found him sitting on
his horse in the road and waiting for his column.

“General,” I said, “do you know that the officer commanding
the picket was shot?”

“No; where is he?”

“He is lying yonder in the corner of the fence, badly
wounded.”

Stuart looked in the direction of the wounded man.

“This ought to be attended to,” he said. “I do not like to
leave him there, but I must go on. I wish you would see to this—
Dr. Mount is at Mountsville, tell him to have the officer carried
there, and to look to his wound. But first take his parole. He
is a prisoner.”

The General then rode on, and I hastened back to the suffering
officer.

The spectacle was a piteous one. He was lying in a corner
of the fenee, writhing and groaning. From his lips came incessantly
those pathetic words which the suffering utter more than
all others—“Oh! my God! my God!”

I dismounted, and bent over him.

“Are you in very great pain?”

“Oh! my God!”

“Where are you wounded?”

“Oh! my God! my God!”

I could see no blood, and yet this human being was evidently
stretched upon the rack. What he required was a physician;

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and mounting my horse I galloped to Mountsville, only a few
hundred yards distant, where I saw and gave the General's message
to Dr. Mount. The doctor promptly answered that he would
send immediately for the sufferer, and dress his wound; and having
received this assurance, I returned to the spot where he lay

“Do you suffer as much now?” I asked.

A groan was the reply.

“You will be taken care of—a surgeon is coming.”

But I could not attract his attention. Then all at once I
remembered the general's order. I was to parole this man—
that order must be obeyed, unless I thought him dying or sure
to die. It was my duty as a soldier to observe the directions
which I had received.

I looked at the sufferer; could see no blood; thought “this
wound may be only very painful;” and, taking from my military
satchel a scrap of paper, wrote with a pencil the parole
which I have copied in the beginning of this paper.

Then kneeling down beside the officer, I placed the pencil in
his hand, read the parole, and he attached his name to it, without
objection—exhibiting, as he did so, many evidences of suffering,
but none of approaching death.

Fifteen minutes afterwards a vehicle was brought, and Captain
Gove, of the First Rhode Island Cavalry, was conveyed, in charge
of a surgeon, to Mountsville.

Here the writer had intended to terminate his sketch—attaching
to it the title, “Paroled in Articulo Mortis.” But in so
determining he did not take into consideration the curious
faculty of memory—that faculty which slumbers, and seems
dead often, but none the less lives; which, once set in motion,
travels far. Two or three recollections of that period,
and allied to the subject, have come back—among them the
attack on Aldie; the ovation which awaited us at Middleburg;
and the curious manner in which the heavy silver
watch and chain of the wounded officer—taken from his

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body by an officer of the staff—was afterwards restored to his
family.

A word of each incident in its turn.

The force at Mountsville was one of the antennœ of that dan
gerous foe, General Bayard. Touched, it recoiled—but behind
it were the veritable claws. At Aldie, Bayard was posted with
artillery, and a cavalry force which we estimated from the
accounts of prisoners—some seventy in number—at about 5000.

Stuart had only the brigade of Fitz Lee, about 1000 men, but
once in motion the “Flower of Cavaliers” always followed the
Scriptural precept to forget those things which were behind, and
press on to those which were before. His column, therefore,
moved on steadily; and before I had finished paroling Captain
Gove, was nearly out of sight.

Nothing now detained me, and pushing on at full gallop, I
came up with Stuart on the high hill west of Aldie. All along
the road were dead and wounded men—one of the former was
lying in a pool of blood pierced through from breast to back
by a sabre thrust.

Fifty yards further, the long column was stationary on the road
which wound up the hill—stationary, but agitated, restless. From
the front came carbine shots.

On the summit of the hill, relieved against the sky, was the
form of Stuart, with floating plume, drawn sword, and animated
gesture. His horse was rearing; his sabre, as he whirled it
around his head, flashed like lightning in the October sun. No
officer was with him—he had distanced all. I never saw him
more impatient.

“Go to the head of the column, and make it charge!” was his
order—an order so unlike this preux chevalier, who generally
took the front himself, that I would not record it, did I not recall
the exact words—“tell them to charge right in!”

A storm of bullets hissed around the speaker; his horse was
dancing the polka on his hind feet.

Before I had reached the head of the column, going at a run,
Stuart was there too. Then the cause of the halt was seen. The
enemy had dismounted a double line of marksmen—if they were

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not infantry—and those adventurous cavaliers who had pushed
on into the hornets' hive, Aldie, had fallen back, pursued by
balls. At the same moment the Federal artillery was seen coming
into position at a rapid gallop on the opposite hill.

Stuart threw one fiery glance in that direction, flashed a
second towards the front, and said briefly:

“Tell Wickham to form on the hill, and bring up Pelham at a
gallop!”

The order was delivered to Wickham; then I went to hurry
Pelham. I found him advancing, alone, at a walk, riding a
huge artillery horse, his kness drawn up by the short stirrups.

“The pieces are coming at a gallop,” was his smiling answer;
“anything going on?”

“The General is going to fall back to the hill, and needs the
guns.”

“All right; they'll be there.”

And soon the roll of wheels, and the heavy beat of artillery
horses' hoofs, was heard. A cloud of dust rose behind. The
pieces approached at a gallop, and ascending the hill, came
into position, flanked by cavalry. Then they opened, and at
the third shot the Federal artillery changed its position. I
always thought they must have known when Pelham was
opposed to them. In the Southern army there was no greater
artillerist than this boy.

Stuart was now upon the hill, where he had drawn up his line
to meet Bayard's charge. He had scarcely made his dispositions,
however, when a mounted man approached him at full
gallop, from the side of Mountsville, that is to say, his rear, and
delivered a message.

The face of the General flushed, and he threw a rapid glance
in that direction. He had received intelligence that a heavy
force of the enemy was closing in upon his rear from the side of
Leesburgh. With Bayard's 5000 in front, and that column in
rear, the little brigade seemed to be caught in a veritable hornets'
nest.

But to extricate himself without difficulty from every species
of “tight place,” seemed to be a peculiar faculty of Stuarts.

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He gave an order to Wickham; the cavalry moved slowly back,
with the enemy's shell bursting above them. Pelham limbered
up coolly; the column headed to the left; a friendly by-road,
grassy, skirted with trees and upperceived by the enemy, presented
itself; and in fifteen minutes the whole Southern force was
out of Bayard's clutch, moving steadily across to Middleburg.
Stuart was out of the trap.

At Middleburg, that charming little town, dropped amid the
smiling fields of Loudoun, the General and his followers were
received in a manner which I wish I could describe; but it was
indescribable. The whole hamlet seemed to have been attacked
by a sudden fit of joyous insanity. Men, women, and children,
ran from the houses, shouting, laughing, cheering—crazy, it
appeared, for joy, at sight of the gray horsemen. Six hours
before they were in the “enemy's country,” and the streets had
been traversed by long columns of blue cavalry. Now the
same streets resounded to the hoofstrokes of Stuart's men, clad
in no precise uniform, it might be—real nondescripts—but certainly
there was not a single “blue-bird” among them, unless
he was a prisoner.

It was this spectacle of gray nondescripts which aroused the
general enthusiasm. As Stuart advanced, superb and smiling,
with his brilliant blue eyes, his ebon plume, his crimson scard,
and his rattling sabre, in front of his men, the town, as I have
said, grew wild. His hand was grasped by twenty persons;
bright eyes greeted him; beautiful lips saluted him. Believe
me, reader, it was something to be a soldier of the C. S. A.,
when the name of that soldier was Stuart, Jackson, Gordon, or
Rodes. Fair hands covered them with flowers, cut off their
coat-buttons, and caressed the necks of the horses which they
rode. Better still than that, pure hearts offered prayers for
them; when they fell, the brightest eyes were wet with tears.

Most striking of all scenes of that pageant of rejoicing at
Middleburg, was the ovation in front of a school of young girls.
The house had poured out, as from a cornucopia, a great crowd
of damsels, resembling, in their variegated dresses, a veritable
collection of roses, tulips, and carnations. They were ready

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there, these living flowers, to greet their favourite, when he appeared;
and no sooner did his column come in sight in the suburbs
than a wind seemed to agitate the roses, tulips, and carnations;
a murmur rose—“He is coming!”

Then at sight of the floating plume the tempest of welcome
culminated. Beautiful eyes flashed, fair cheeks flushed, red lips
were wreathed with smiles; on every side were heard from the
young maidens, fairly dancing for joy, exclamations of rapturous
delight.

As he came opposite the spot Stuart halted, and taking his
hat off, saluted profoundly. But that was not enough. They
had not assembled there to receive a mere bow. In an instant
his hand was seized; he was submerged in the wave of flowers;
for once, the cavalier who had often said to me, “I never mean
to surrender,” was fairly captured. Nor did he seem to regret
it. He returned good for evil, and appeared to be actuated by
the precept which commands us to love our enemies. Those
enemies pressed around him; overwhelmed him with their
thanks; grasped his hands, and allowed the brave soldier's lip,
as he bent from the saddle, to touch the fresh roses of their
cheeks.

Do you blame them? I do not. Do you say that they were
too “forward?” Believe me, your judgment is harsh. This
soldier was a pure-hearted Christian gentleman, who had fought
for those children, and meant to die for them soon. Was it
wrong to greet him thus, as he passed, amid the storm? and does
any young lady, who kissed him, regret it? Do-not be afraid,
mademoiselle, should you read this page. The lip which
touched your cheek that day never trembled when its owner
was fighting, or going to fall, for you. That hand which you
pressed was a brave and honest Virginian's. That heart which
your greeting made beat faster and more proudly, was one
which never shrank before the sternest tests of manhood; for it
beat in the breast of the greatest and noblest of our Southern
cavaliers!

When Stuart lay down in his bivouac that might, wrapping
his red blanket around him by the glimmering camp fire, I

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think he must have fallen asleep with a smile on his lips, and
that the hand of night led him to the land of Pleasant Dreams!

A few words will end the present sketch. They will refer to
the manner in which the watch and chain of Captain Gove were
returned.

In the year 1863, the cavalry headquarters were at “Camp
Pelham,” near Culpeper Court-house.

The selection of that title for his camp by Stuart, will indicate
little to the world at large. To those familiar with his peculiarities
it will be different. Stuart named his various headquarters
after some friend recently dead. “Camp Pelham” indicated
that this young immortal had finished his career.

Pelham, in fact, was dead. At Manassas, Williamsburg, Cold
Harbour, Groveton, Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg, and a hundred
other battles, he had opposed his breast to the storm, but no bullet
had ever struck him. In the hard and bitter struggle of
Kelly's Ford, with Averill, in March, 1863, he had fallen. The
whole South mourned him—dead thus at twenty-four. Stuart
wept for him, and named his new quarters “Camp Pelham.”

To-day, in this autumn of 1866, the landscape must be dreary
there; the red flag floats no more, and Pelham lives only in
memory. But that is enough. There are some human beings
who, once encountered, “dare you to forget.”

To terminate my sketch. In those days of 1863, I had long
forgotten Mountsville, the little fight there, and Captain Gove—
for the months of war are long—when one evening at “Camp
Pelham” I saw approach a small party of cavalrymen escorting
a Federal prisoner. This was so common an occurrence that it
attracted no attention. The loungers simply turned their heads;
the men dismounted; the orderly announced the fact to the
General, and the Federal prisoner, who was an officer, disap
peared behind the flap of General Stuart's tent.

Half an hour afterwards the General came out with the

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prisoner, a short, thick-set man, and approaching the fire in front
of my tent, introduced him to me as Captain Stone, of the
United States Army. Then, drawing me aside, the General
said:

“I wish you would make Captain Stone's time pass as agreeably
as possible. We ought to treat him well. In fording a
stream near Warrenton, after his capture, he saved the life of
Colonel Payne. The Colonel was wearing a heavy overcoat
with a long cape, when his horse stumbled in the water, threw
him, and as the heavy cape confined his arms, he would have
been drowned but for the prisoner, who jumped into the water
and saved him. You see we ought to treat him like a friend,
rather than as a prisoner,” added the General smiling, “and I
wish you would give him a seat and make yourself agreeable
generally!”

I saluted, returned the General's laugh, and made a profound
bow to Captain Stone as I offered him the only camp stool which
I possessed. Then we began to talk in a manner perfectly
friendly.

This conversation lasted for half an hour. Then General
Stuart, who had finished his evening's task at his desk, approached,
in company with several members of the staff, and everybody
began to converse. The comments of Captain Stone upon his
capture and his captors, were entirely amicable. He had been
“taken in charge” with perfect politeness; and his personal
effects had been religiously respected. In proof of this statement
he drew out his watch, and commended it as a timepiece of most
admirable performance.

“It is not better than mine, I think, Captain,” said a member
of the staff, with a smile; and he drew from his breast pocket a
large silver watch of the most approved pattern.

“That seems to be an excellent timepiece,” was the response
of the Federal prisoner. “Where did you purchase it?”

“It was captured; or rather I took it from a Federal officer
who was dying, to preserve it—intending if I ever had an opportunity
to return it to some member of his family.”

Stuart took the watch and looked at it.

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“I remember this watch,” he said; “it belonged to Captain
Gove, who was killed in the skirmish at Mountsville.”

“Captain Gove, of the First Rhode Island, was it, General?”
asked the prisoner.

“The same, Captain.”

“I know his people very well.”

“Then,” returned Stuart, handing him the watch, “you will
be able to return this to his family.”

So when Captain Stone left Camp Pelham on the next morning,
he took away with him the watch, which the family of the
unfortunate Captain Gove no doubt preserve as a memorial of
him.

This little incident has occupied an amount of space disproportioned,
it may be thought, to its importance. But memory
will have no master. The sight of the paper which that dying
man at Mountsville affixed his name to, aroused all these recollections.
Unwritten, they haunted the writer's mind; recorded,
they are banished. The past takes them. There they sleep
again, with a thousand others, gay or sorrowful, brilliant or
lugubrious, for of this changeful warp and woof is war.

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There is an event of the late war, the details of which are
known only to a few persons; and yet it is no exaggeration to
say that many thousands would feel an interest in the particulars.
I mean the death of Jackson. The minute circumstances
attending it have never been published, and they are here
recorded as matter of historical as well as personal interest.

A few words will describe the situation of affairs when this
tragic scene took place. The spring of 1862 saw a large Federal
army assembled on the north bank of the Rappahannock, and on
the first of May, General Hooker, its commander, had crossed,
and firmly established himself at Chancellorsville. General
Lee's forces were opposite Fredericksburg chiefly, a small body
of infantry only watching the upper fords. This latter was
compelled to fall back before General Hooker's army of about
one hundred and fifty thousand men, and Lee bastened by forced
marches from Fredericksburg toward Chancellorsville, with a
force of about thirty thousand men—Longstreet being absent at
Suffolk—to check the further advance of the enemy. This was
on May 1st, and the Confederate advance force under Jackson,
on the same evening, attacked General Hooker's intrenchments
facing toward Fredericksburg. They were found impregnable,
the dense thickets having been converted into abattis, and every
avenue of approach defended with artillery. General Lee therefore
directed the assault to cease, and consulted with his corps

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commanders as to further operations. Jackson suggested a rapid
movement around the Federal front, and a determined attack
upon the right flank of General Hooker, west of Chancellorsville.
The ground on his left and in his front gave such enormous
advantages to the Federal troops that an assault there was
impossible, and the result of the consultation was the adoption
of Jackson's suggestion to attack the enemy's right. Every
preparation was made that night, and on the morning of May
second, Jackson set out with Hill's, Rodes's, and Colston's divisions,
in all about twenty-two thousand men, to accomplish his
undertaking.

Chancellorsville was a single brick house of large dimensions,
situated on the plank-road from Fredericksburg to Orange, and
all around it were the thickets of the country known as the
Wilderness. In this tangled undergrowth the Federal works
had been thrown up, and such was the denseness of the woods
that a column moving a mile or two to the south was not apt to
be seen. Jackson calculated upon this, but fortune seemed
against him. At the Catherine Furnace, a mile or two from the
Federal line, his march was discovered, and a hot attack was
made on his rear-guard as he moved past. All seemed now discovered,
but, strange to say, such was not the fact. The Federal
officers saw him plainly, but the winding road which he pursued
chanced here to bend toward the south, and it was afterward
discovered that General Hooker supposed him to be in full
retreat upon Richmond.
Such at least was the statement of Federal
officers. Jackson repulsed the attack upon his rear, continued
his march, and striking into what is called the Brock
Road, turned the head of his column northward, and rapidly
advanced around General Hooker's right flank. A cavalry force
under General Stuart had moved in front and on the flanks of
the column, driving off scouting parties and other too inquisitive
wayfarers; and on reaching the junction of the Orange and
Germanna roads a heavy Federal picket was forced to retire.
General Fitz Lee then informed Jackson that from a hill near at
hand he could obtain a view of the Federal works, and proceeding
thither, Jackson reconnoitred. This reconnoissance showed

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him that he was not far enough to the left, and he said briefly to
an aide, “Tell my column to cross that road,” pointing to the
plank-road. His object was to reach the “old turnpike,” which
ran straight down into the Federal right flank. It was reached
at about five in the evening, and without a moment's delay
Jackson formed his line of battle for an attack. Rodes's division
moved in front, supported at an interval of two hundred yards
by Colston's, and behind these A. P. Hill's division marched in
column like the artillery, on account of the almost impenetrable
character of the thickets on each side of the road.

Jackson's assault was sudden and terrible. It struck the
Eleventh corps, commanded on this occasion by General Howard,
and, completely surprised, they retreated in confusion upon
the heavy works around Chancellorsville. Rodes and Colston
followed them, took possession of the breastworks across the
road, and a little after eight o'clock the Confederate troops were
within less than a mile of Chancellorsville, preparing for a new
and more determined attack. Jackson's plan was worthy of being
the last military project conceived by that resolute and enterprising
intellect. He designed putting his entire force into action,
extending his left, and placing that wing between General
Hooker and the Rappahannock. Then, unless the Federal commander
could cut his way through, his army would be captured
or destroyed. Jackson commenced the execution of this plan
with vigour, and an obvious determination to strain every nerve,
and incur every hazard to accomplish so decisive a success.
Rodes and Colston were directed to retire a short distance, and
re-form their lines, now greatly mingled, and Hill was ordered
to move to the front and take their places. On fire with his
great design, Jackson then rode forward in front of the troops
toward Chancellorsville, and here and then the bullet struck him
which was to terminate his career.

The details which follow are given on the authority of Jackson's
staff officers, and one or two others who witnessed all that
occurred. In relation to the most tragic portion of the scene,
there remained, as will be seen, but a single witness.

Jackson had ridden forward on the turnpike to reconnoitre,

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and ascertain, if possible, in spite of the darkness of the night,
the position of the Federal lines. The moon shone, but it was
struggling with a bank of clouds, and afforded but a dim light.
From the gloomy thickets on each side of the turnpike, looking
more weird and sombre in the half light, came the melancholy
notes of the whippoorwill. “I think there must have been ten
thousand,” said General Stuart afterwards. Such was the scene
amid which the events now about to be narrated took place.

Jackson had advanced with some members of his staff, considerably
beyond the building known as “Melzi Chancellor's,”
about a mile from Chancellorsville, and had reached a point
nearly opposite an old dismantled house in the woods near the
road, whose shell-torn roof may still be seen, when he reined in
his horse, and remaining perfectly quiet and motionless, listened
intently for any indications of a movement in the Federal lines.
They were scarcely two hundred yards in front of him, and seeing
the danger to which he exposed himself one of his staff officers
said, “General, don't you think this is the wrong place for
you?” He replied quickly, almost impatiently, “The danger is
all over! the enemy is routed—go back and tell A. P. Hill to
press right on!” The officer obeyed, but had scarcely disappeared
when a sudden volley was fired from the Confederate
infantry in Jackson's rear, and on the right of the road—evidently
directed upon him and his escort. The origin of this fire
has never been discovered, and after Jackson's death there was
little disposition to investigate an occurrence which occasioned
bitter distress to all who by any possibility could have taken
part in it. It is probable, however, that some movement of the
Federal skirmishers had provoked the fire; if this is an error,
the troops fired deliberately upon Jackson and his party, under
the impression that they were a body of Federal cavalry reconnoitring.
It is said that the men had orders to open upon any
object in front, “especially upon cavalry;” and the absence of
pickets or advance force of any kind on the Confederate side
explains the rest. The enemy were almost in contact with them;
the Federal artillery, fully commanding the position of the troops,
was expected to open every moment; and the men were just in

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-- --

DEATH WOUND OF STONEWALL JACKSON.—Page 301.
“He was then carried to the side of the road, and laid under a tree.” His last words were, “Let us cross over
the river and rest under the shade.”
[figure description] Illustration page, which depicts the death of Stonewall Jackson. He is shown lying under a large tree, dying, as groups of Confederate soldiers gather around. The background image is filled with Confederate soldiers running towards Jackson, some with swords aloft and one with flag raised and waving.[end figure description]

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p521-326 [figure description] Page 301.[end figure description]

that excited condition which induces troops to fire at any and
every object they see.

Whatever may have been the origin of this volley, it came,
and many of the staff and escort were shot, and fell from their
horses. Jackson wheeled to the left and galloped into the woods
to get out of range of the bullets; but he had not gone twenty
steps beyond the edge of the turnpike, in the thicket, when one
of his brigades drawn up within thirty yards of him fired a volley
in their turn, kneeling on the right knee, as the flash of the
guns showed, as though prepared to “guard against cavalry.”
By this fire Jackson was wounded in three places. He received
one ball in his left arm, two inches below the shoulder-joint, shattering
the bone and severing the chief artery; a second passed
through the same arm between the elbow and the wrist, making
its exit through the palm of the hand; and a third ball entered
the palm of his right hand, about the middle, and passing through
broke two of the bones. At the moment when he was struck,
he was holding his rein in his left hand, and his right was raised
either in the singular gesture habitual to him, at times of excitement,
or to protect his face from the boughs of the trees. His
left hand immediately dropped at his side, and his horse, no
longer controlled by the rein, and frightened at the firing,
wheeled suddenly and ran from the fire in the direction of the
Federal lines. Jackson's helpless condition now exposed him
to a distressing accident. His horse darted violently between
two trees, from one of which a horizontal bough extended,
at about the height of his head, to the other; and as he passed
between the trees, this bough struck him in the face, tore off his
cap, and threw him violently back on his horse. The blow was
so violent as nearly to unseat him, but it did not do so, and
rising erect again, he caught the bridle with the broken and
bleeding fingers of his right hand, and succeeded in turning his
horse back into the turnpike. Here Captain Wilbourn, of his
staff, succeeded in catching the reins and checking the animal,
who was almost frantic from terror, at the moment when, from
loss of blood and exhaustion, Jackson was about to fall from the
saddle.

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The scene at this time was gloomy and depressing. Horses
mad with fright at the close firing were seen running in every
direction, some of them riderless, others defying control; and
in the wood lay many wounded and dying men. Jackson's
whole party, except Captain Wilbourn and a member of the
signal corps, had been killed, wounded, or dispersed. The man
riding just behind Jackson had had his horse killed; a courier
near was wounded and his horse ran into the Federal lines;
Lieutenant Morrison, aide-de-camp, threw himself from the saddle,
and his horse fell dead a moment afterwards; Captain Howard
was wounded and carried by his horse into the Federal camps;
Captain Leigh had his horse shot under him; Captain Forbes
was killed; and Captain Boswell, Jackson's chief engineer, was shot through the heart, and his dead body carried by his frightened
horse into the lines of the enemy near at hand.

Such was the fatal result of this causeless fire. It had ceased
as suddenly as it began, and the position in the road which
Jackson now occupied was the same from which he had been
driven. Captain Wilbourn, who with Mr. Wynn, of the signal
corps, was all that was left of the party, notices a singular circumstance
which attracted his attention at this moment. The
turnpike was utterly deserted with the exception of himself, his
companion, and Jackson; but in the skirting of thicket on the
left he observed some one sitting on his horse, by the side of the
road, and coolly looking on, motionless and silent. The unknown
individual was clad in a dark dress which strongly resembled
the Federal uniform; but it seemed impossible that one
of the enemy could have penetrated to that spot without being
discovered, and what followed seemed to prove that he belonged
to the Confederates. Captain Wilbourn directed him to “ride
up there and see what troops those were”—the men who had
fired on Jackson—when the stranger slowly rode in the direction

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pointed out, but never returned. Who this silent personage
was, is left to conjecture.

Captain Wilbourn, who was standing by Jackson, now said,
“They certainly must be our troops,” to which the General assented
with a nod of the head, but said nothing. He was looking
up the road toward his lines with apparent astonishment,
and continued for some time to look in that direction as if unable
to realize that he could have been fired upon and wounded by
his own men. His wound was bleeding profusely, the blood
streaming down so as to fill his gauntlets, and it was necessary
to secure assistance promptly. Captain Wilbourn asked him if
he was much injured, and urged him to make an effort to move
his fingers, as his ability to do this would prove that his arm was
not broken. He endeavoured to do so, looking down at his
hand during the attempt, but speedily gave it up, announcing
that his arm was broken. An effort which his companion made
to straighten it caused him great pain, and murmuring, “You
had better take me down,” he leaned forward and fell into Captain
Wilbourn's arms. He was so much exhausted by loss of
blood that he was unable to take his feet out of the stirrups, and
this was done by Mr. Wynn. He was then carried to the side
of the road and laid under a small tree, where Captain Wilbourn
supported his head while his companion went for a surgeon and
ambulance to carry him to the rear, receiving strict instructions,
however, not to mention the occurrence to any one but Dr.
McGuire, or other surgeon. Captain Wilbourn then made an
examination of the General's wounds. Removing his fieldglasses
and haversack, which latter contained some paper and
envelopes for dispatches, and two religious tracts, he put these
on his own person for safety, and with a small pen-knife proceeded
to cut away the sleeves of the india-rubber overall, dresscoat,
and two shirts, from the bleeding arm.

While this duty was being performed, General Hill rode up
with his staff, and dismounting beside the general expressed his
great regret at the accident. To the question whether his wound
was painful, Jackson replied, “Very painful,” and added that
“his arm was broken.” General Hill pulled off his gauntlets,

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which were full of blood, and his sabre and belt were also removed.
He then seemed easier, and having swallowed a mouthful
of whiskey, which was held to his lips, appeared much refreshed.
It seemed impossible to move him without making his
wounds bleed afresh, but it was absolutely necessary to do so,
as the enemy were not more than a hundred and fifty yards distant,
and might advance at any moment—and all at once a proof
was given of the dangerous position which he occupied. Captain
Adams, of General Hill's staff, had ridden ten or fifteen
yards ahead of the group, and was now heard calling out, “Halt!
surrender! fire on them if they don't surrender!” At the next
moment he came up with two Federal skirmishers who had at
once surrendered, with an air of astonishment, declaring that
they were not aware they were in the Confederate lines.

General Hill had drawn his pistol and mounted his horse;
and he now returned to take command of his line and advance,
promising Jackson to keep his accident from the knowledge of
the troops, for which the general thanked him. He had scarcely
gone when Lieutenant Morrison, who had come up, reported the
Federal line advancing rapidly, and then within about a hundred
yards of the spot, and exclaimed: “Let us take the General up
in our arms and carry him off.” But Jackson said faintly, “No,
if you can help me up, I can walk.” He was accordingly lifted
up and placed upon his feet, when the Federal batteries in front
opened with great violence, and Captain Leigh, who had just
arrived with a litter, had his horse killed under him by a shell.
He leaped to the ground, near Jackson, and the latter leaning
his right arm on Captain Leigh's shoulder, slowly dragged himself
along toward the Confederate lines, the blood from his
wounded arm flowing profusely over Captain Leigh's uniform.

Hill's lines were now in motion to meet the coming attack,
and as the men passed Jackson, they saw from the number and
rank of his escort that he must be a superior officer. “Who is
that—who have you there?” was asked, to which the reply was,
“Oh! it's only a friend of ours who is wounded.” These inquiries
became at last so frequent that Jackson said to his escort:
“When asked, just say it is a Confederate officer.”

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It was with the utmost difficulty that the curiosity of the
troops was evaded. They seemed to suspect something, and
would go around the horses which were led along on each side
of the General to conceal him, to see if they could discover who
it was. At last one of them caught a glimpse of the general,
who had lost his cap, as we have seen, in the woods, and was
walking bareheaded in the moonlight—and suddenly the man
exclaimed “in the most pitiful tone,” says an eye-witness:
“Great God! that is General Jackson!” An evasive reply was
made, implying that this was a mistake, and the man looked
from the speaker to Jackson with a bewildered air, but passed
on without further comment. All this occurred before Jackson
had been able to drag himself more than twenty steps; but
Captain Leigh had the litter at hand, and his strength being
completely exhausted, the General was placed upon it, and borne
toward the rear.

The litter was carried by two officers and two men, the rest
of the escort walking beside it and leading the horses. They
had scarcely begun to move, however, when the Federal artillery
opened a furious fire upon the turnpike from the works in
front of Chancellorsville, and a hurricane of shell and canister
swept the road. What the eye then saw was a scene of disordered
troops, riderless horses, and utter confusion. The intended
advance of the Confederates had doubtless been discovered, and
the Federal fire was directed along the road over which they
would move. By this fire Generals Hill and Pender, with several
of their staff, were wounded, and one of the men carrying
the litter was shot through both arms and dropped his burden.
His companion did likewise, hastily flying from the dangerous
locality, and but for Captain Leigh, who caught the handle of
the litter, it would have fallen to the ground. Lieutenant Smith
had been leading his own and the General's horse, but the animals
now broke away, in uncontrollable terror, and the rest of
the party scattered to find shelter. Under these circumstances
the litter was lowered by Captain Leigh and Lieutenant Smith
into the road, and those officers lay down by it to protect themselves,
in some degree, from the heavy fire of artillery which

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swept the turnpike and “struck millions of sparks from the
flinty stones of the roadside.” Jackson raised himself upon his
elbow and attempted to get up, but Lieutenant Smith threw his
arm across his breast and compelled him to desist. They lay in
this manner for some minutes without moving, the hurricane
still sweeping over them. “So far as I could see,” wrote one of
the officers, “men and horses were struggling with a most terrible
death.” The road was, otherwise, deserted. Jackson and
his two officers were the sole living occupants of the spot.

The fire of canister soon relaxed, though that of shot and
shell continued; and Jackson rose to his feet. Leaning on the
shoulders of the party who had rejoined him, he turned aside
from the road, which was again filling with infantry, and struck
into the woods—one of the officers following with the litter.
Here he moved with difficulty among the troops who were lying
down in line of battle, and the party encountered General Pender,
who had just been slightly wounded. He asked who it was
that was wounded, and the reply was, “A Confederate officer.”
General Pender, however, recognised Jackson, and exclaimed:
“Ah! General, I am sorry to see you have been wounded. The
lines here are so much broken that I fear we will have to fall
back.” These words seemed to affect Jackson strongly. He
raised his head, and said with a flash of the eye, “You must
hold your ground, General Pender! you must hold your ground,
sir!” This was the last order Jackson ever gave upon the
field.

The General's strength was now completely exhausted, and he
asked to be permitted to lie down upon the ground. But to
this the officers would not consent. The hot fire of artillery
which still continued, and the expected advance of the Federal
infantry, made it necessary to move on, and the litter was again
put in requisition. The General, now nearly fainting, was laid
upon it, and some litter-bearers having been procured, the whole

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party continued to move through the tangled woods, toward
Melzi Chancellor's.

So dense was the undergrowth, and the ground so difficult,
that their progress was very slow. An accident now occasioned
Jackson untold agony. One of the men caught his foot in a
vine, and stumbling, let go the handle of the litter, which fell
heavily to the ground. Jackson fell upon his left shoulder,
where the bone had been shattered, and his agony must have
been extreme. “For the first time,” says one of the party, “he
groaned, and that most piteously.” He was quickly raised, however,
and a beam of moonlight passing through the foliage overhead,
revealed his pale face, closed eyes, and bleeding breast.
Those around him thought that he was dying. What a death
for such a man! All around him was the tangled wood, only
half illumined by the struggling moonbeams; above him burst
the shells of the enemy, exploding, says an officer, “like showers
of falling stars,” and in the pauses came the melancholy notes
of the whippoorwills, borne on the night air. In this strange
wilderness, the man of Port Republic and Manassas, who had
led so many desperate charges, seemed about to close his eyes
and die in the night.

But such was not to be the result then. When asked by one
of the officers whether he was much hurt, he opened his eyes
and said quietly without further exhibition of pain, “No, my
friend, don't trouble yourself about me.” The litter was then
raised upon the shoulders of the men, the party continued their
way, and reaching an ambulance near Melzi Chancellor's placed
the wounded General in it. He was then borne to the field hospital
at Wilderness Run, some five miles distant.

Here he lay throughout the next day, Sunday, listening to
the thunder of the artillery and the long roll of the musketry
from Chancellorsville, where Stuart, who had succeeded him in
command, was pressing General Hooker back toward the Rappahannock.
His soul must have thrilled at that sound, long so
familiar, but he could take no part in the conflict. Lying faint
and pale, in a tent in rear of the “Wilderness Tavern,” he
seemed to be perfectly resigned, and submitted to the painful

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probing of his wounds with soldierly patience. It was obviously
necessary to amputate the arm, and one of his surgeons asked,
“If we find amputation necessary, General, shall it be done at
once?” to which he replied with alacrity, “Yes, certainly, Dr.
McGuire, do for me whatever you think right.” The arm was
then taken off, and he slept soundly after the operation, and on
waking, began to converse about the battle. “If I had not
been wounded,” he said, “or had had one hour more of daylight,
I would have cut off the enemy from the road to United States
ford; we would have had them entirely surrounded, and they
would have been obliged to surrender or cut their way out; they
had no other alternative. My troops may sometimes fail in
driving an enemy from a position, but the enemy always fails to
drive my men from a position.” It was about this time that we
received the following letter from General Lee: “I have just
received your note informing me that you were wounded. I
cannot express my regret at the occurrence. Could I have directed
events I should have chosen for the good of the country
to have been disabled in your stead. I congratulate you upon
the victory which is due to your skill and energy.”

The remaining details of Jackson's illness and death are
known. He was removed to Guinney's Depot, on the Richmond
and Fredericksburg Railroad, where he gradually sank, pneumonia
having attacked him. When told that his men on Sunday
had advanced upon the enemy shouting “Charge, and remember
Jackson!” he exclaimed, “It was just like them! it
was just like them! They are a noble body of men! The
men who live through this war,” he added, “will be proud to
say `I was one of the Stonewall brigade' to their children.”
Looking soon afterwards at the stump of his arm, he said,
“Many people would regard this as a great misfortune. I regard
it as one of the great blessings of my life.” He subsequently
said, “I consider these wounds a blessing; they were
given me for some good and wise purpose, and I would not part
with them if I could.”

His wife was now with him, and when she announced to him,
weeping, his approaching death, he replied with perfect calmness,

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“Very good, very good; it is all right.” These were nearly his
last words. He soon afterwards became delirious, and was heard
to mutter “Order A. P. Hill to prepare for action!—Pass the
infantry to the front!—Tell Major Hawks to send forward provisions
for the men!” Then his martial ardor disappeared, a
smile diffused itself over his pale features, and he murmured:
“Let us cross over the river and rest under the shade of the
trees!” It was the river of death he was about to pass; and
soon after uttering these words, he expired.

Such were the circumstances attending the death-wound of
Jackson. I have detailed them with the conciseness—but the
accuracy, too—of a procès-verbal. The bare statement is all that
is necessary—comment may be spared the reader.

The character and career of the man who thus passed from
the arena of his glory, are the property of history.

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[figure description] Page 310.[end figure description]

SOUVENIRS OF A C. S. OFFICER.

Nothing is more tiresome than a “Collection of Anecdotes;”
nothing more wearying than the task of gathering them from
the four winds.

In the memory of every human being, however, linger many
“trifling incidents” which he is loth to have completely disappear
from the sum of things. Unrecorded they are forgotten—recorded
they live. They may not be “important,” but they are
characteristic. They were witnessed by the narrator; hence he
writes or tells them with an interest infinitely greater than he feels
in repeating what he has read, or has heard passing from mouth
to mouth. For him the personages live, the localities exist; the
real surroundings frame the picture, however valueless it may appear.
If therefore, worthy reader, the following trivia seem dull
to you, it is because you did not “know the parties,” as the writer
did. Turn the page if they weary you—but perhaps you will
laugh. They are “trifles,” it is true; but then life is half made
up of trifles—is it not?

General Fitz Lee, one day in the fall of 1863, sent a courier up
from the Lower Rappahannock, to ask General Stuart why General
Pleasanton of the U. S. Army “had been sent to Georgia?”—
a dispatch by signal from corps headquarters having communicated
that intelligence.

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Grand tableau when the affair was explained!

General Stuart had signalled: “Meade's Headquarters are at
Wallack's, and Pleasanton's at Cumberland George's”—names or
persons residing near Culpeper Court-house.

The signal flags had said: “Meade's headquarters are at
Wallack's, and Pleasanton's at Cumberland Georgia!

In November, 1863, Lieutenant—was in an old deserted mansion
near Culpeper Court-house, with some prisoners confined in
the upper rooms; the enemy not being far distant. While waiting,
a blaze shot up from a fire which some soldiers had kindled
near, and threw the shadow of the Lieutenant on the wall.
Thinking the shadow was a human being he called out:

“Halt! there!”

No reply from the intruder.

“Answer, or I fire!”

The same silence—when the Lieutenant drew a pistol from his
belt. The shadow did the same. The pistol was levelled: the
opposing weapon performed the same manœuvre. The Lieutenant
thereupon was about to draw trigger, when one of his men
called out:

“Why law! Lieutenant, it ain't nothin' but your own
shadow!”

Immense enjoyment in camp, of this historic occurrence.
Colonel—, our gay visitor, drew a sketch of the scene, appending
to it the words:



“Now by the Apostle Paul: shadows to-night
Have struck more terror to the soul of—
Than could the substance of ten thousand soldiers
Armed all in proof and led by shallow Buford!”

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Captain F—was the best of good fellows, and the most
amiable of signal officers. He was visiting his signal posts near
Culpeper one day, when an infantry-man, clad in a “butternut”
costume lounged up, and looked on with the deepest interest
while the man on duty was “flopping” away right and left with
his flag. Butternut continued to gaze with ardour upon the
movements of the signal-man's flag; then he suddenly drawled
out in a tone of affectionate interest:

“I sa-a-y, str-a-nger! Are the fli-ies a pestering of you?”

In 1863 the enemy caught an old countryman near Madison
Court-house, and informed him that he must do one of two
things—either take the oath of allegiance to the United States
Government or prepare to be buried alive. He declined taking
the oath, when his captors deliberately proceeded in his presence
to dig a grave, and when it was finished they led him to it, and
said:

“Will you take the oath?”

“No!” responded the prisoner.

“You had better!”

“I won't!”

“If you don't take that oath you'll be buried alive in that
grave, in the next five minutes!”

The old fellow approached nearer, looked with attention at
the pit yawning before him, and then turning round with his
hands in his pockets replied calmly:

“Well, go on with your d—d old funeral!”

Laughter from the blue-birds, and release of the prisoner as,
in the fullest acceptation of the phrase, a “hard case.”

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General Order to Inspector-General V—, from Corps Headquarters:—

“Cry aloud—spare not—show my people their transgressions!”

General—made a true cavalier's speech, one evening at
our camp on the Rapidan. He had ridden to headquarters on his
beautiful mare “Nelly Gray,” whom he had had ever since the
first battle of Manassas, and had thus become warmly attached
to. When he went to mount again, he found the mare wince
under him, and after riding a few yards, discovered she was
lame, and limped painfully.

Thereupon the General dismounted, examined the hoof, rose
erect again, and uttering a deep sigh exclaimed:

“Poor Nelly! I wish they could fix it some way, so as you
could ride me home!”

That ought to find a place in the biography of the brave
officer who uttered it.

While I was in the Valley in 1863, I heard an incident which
was enough to “tickle the ribs of Death,” and for its truth I can
vouch. A body of the enemy's cavalry had advanced to the
vicinity of Millwood, and two or three men left the column to go
and “forage,” that is, take by the strong hand what they wanted
for supper, from the first house. Very soon they came in sight
of a cabin in the woods, and cautiously approaching—for the
Confederate scouts were supposed to be everywhere—knocked
at the low door.

A negro woman came at the summons, exhibiting very great

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terror at the sight of the blue coats—and the following colloquy
ensued:

“We want some supper.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But, first, is there anybody here?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh! they ain't nobody here but me—'cept—”

“Except who?”

“Only Colonel Mosby, sir.”

“Colonel Mosby!!!” exclained the speaker, with at least
three exclamation points in his nccent, and getting hastily into
the saddle.

“Are you joking?” he added. “You better not. Is Colonel
Mosby
here?”

“Ye—s, sir,” stammered the woman in great terror; and at
the same moment a low noise like that produced by the footstep
of a man was heard within.

No sooner did they hear this than the men turned their horses'
heads, hurried off, and, rejoining their command, reported that
Colonel Mosby, the celebrated partisan and “guerilla,” was
alone in a house in the woods—to which house they could easily
conduct a party for his capture.

The information was promptly conveyed to the officer in command,
and as promptly acted upon. A detachment was immediately
ordered to mount, and, led by the guides, they advanced
straight towards the house, which they soon saw rise before
them.

It was then necessary to act with caution. Colonel Mosby
was well known to be an officer of desperate courage, and it was
certain that before permitting himself to be captured he would
make a resolute resistance. This was to be counted on, both
from the soldierly nerve of the individual and from the fact that
he was regarded by many of his enemies as a “bushwhacker”
and outlaw, and might be hanged to the first tree, if captured,
not treated as a prisoner of war. From this resulted the conviction
that the celebrated partisan would sell his life dearly;

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and the party bent upon his capture omitted no precautions in
advancing to attack the wild animal in his lair.

An advance-guard was thrown forward; carbineers were dismounted,
and directed to make a circuit and approach the house,
from front, flanks, and rear; and having thus made his dispositions,
the officer in command pushed up at the head of his men
to the house, at the door of which he gave a thundering knock.

No sooner had the trembling negro woman laid her hand on
the latch to reply to this summons, than the force burst in,
cocked pistols in hand, ready to capture Mosby.

He was not visible. In fact there was no other human being
in the cabin except a negro baby, lying in a cradle, and sucking
its thumb.

“Where is Mosby?” thundered the officer.

“Oh! there he is!” was the trembling reply of the woman.

“Where?”

“There, sir!”

And the woman pointed to the cradle.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, sir! I don't mean—I didn't mean nothin'! I call him
`Mosby,' sir—`Colonel Mosby,' sir—that's his name, sir!”

And awaiting her doom, she stood trembling before the
intruders. Those personages looked from the woman to the
baby, sucking away at his thumb; scowled, growled, took another
look; saw that the woman told the truth; and then a roar
of laughter followed, which continued until they had mounted
and were out of sight.

It is said that this incident was not mentioned by the men
upon their return; they only reported Mosby “not found.”
I have mentioned it, however, and I vouch for it. The mother
of “Colonel Mosby,” Black and Jr., was a servant of the hospitable
mansion in which I tarried; the family declared the incident
exactly true; and the hero of the affair, the black baby,
namely, is still living. Lastly, I know the woman; she is very
worthless, but all are.

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There was down in Stafford, during the war, a youthful negro
of six or eight years of age, who excited the admiration of everybody
by his passionate devotion to the Confederacy, and the
“big words” which he used. In fact, his vocabulary was made
up of what Mr. Thackeray calls “the longest and handsomest
words in the dictionary.”

Still he could be terse, pointed, epigrammatic, and hard-cutting
in speech. Of these statements two illustrations are given.

1. When an artillery fight took place near the mansion which
had the honour of sheltering him, the young African was observed
to pause, assume an attitude of extreme attention, remove his
hat, scratch his head, and listen. Then turning to his master,
he said with dignity, “Hear that artillery, sir. Those are,
beyond a doubt, the guns of Stonewall Jackson.”

2. Second illustration. A Federal officer of high rank and
character, a bitter Democrat and opponent of the negro-loving
party, with an extreme disgust, indeed, for the whole black race;
this gentleman visited the house where the young Crichton lived,
and taking a seat in the parlour, began conversing with the ladies.

While so doing he was startled by a voice at his elbow, and a
vigorous clap upon the back of his splendid uniform. Turning
quickly in extreme wrath at this disprespect, he saw the grinning
face of young ebony behind him; and from the lips of the
youth issued the loud and friendly address:

“Hallo, Yank! Do you belong to Mr. Lincoln? You are
fighting for me—ain't you?”

The officer recoiled in disgust, looked daggers, and brushing
his uniform, as though it had been contaminated, growled to the
lady of the house:

You taught him this, madam!”

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In June, 1863, General Lee was going to set out for Gettysburg.
To mask the movement of his infantry from the Lower
Rappahannock, a cavalry review was ordered, on the plains of
Culpeper.

That gay and gallant commander, General Fitz Lee, thereupon,
sent word to General Hood to “come and see the review,
and bring any of his people”—meaning probably his staff and
headquarters.

On the second day the gray masses of Hood's entire division
emerged, with glittering bayonets, from the woods in the direction
of the Rapidan.

“You invited me and my people,” said Hood, shaking hands
with General Fitz, “and you see I have brought them!”

Laughter followed, and General Fitz Lee said:

“Well, don't let them halloo, `Here's your mule!' at the
review.”

“If they do we will charge you!” interrupted General Wade
Hampton, laughing.

For all that the graybacks of Hood, who duly attended the
review, did not suppress their opinions of the cavalry. As the
horsemen charged by the tall flag under which General R. E.
Lee sat his horse looking at them, a weather-beaten Texas of
Hood's “Old Brigade” turned round to a comrade and muttered:

“Wouldn't we clean them out, if Old Hood would only let us
loose on 'em!”

The infantry never could forgive their cavalry brethren the
possession of horses—while they had to walk.

General W—gave me, one day, a good anecdote of Cedar
Run. He was then Colonel of artillery, and when the Confederates'
left wing was thrown into disorder, strenuously exerted

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himself to induce the stragglers to return to the fight. This was
not an easy task—the troops were demoralized for the moment
by the suddenness of the attack.

In consequence, the Colonel had small success; and this enraged
him. When enraged the Colonel swore, and when he
swore he did so with extraordinary vehemence and eloquence.
On this occasion he surpassed all his previous performances,
uttering a volley of oaths sufficient to make a good Christian's
hair rise up.

He had just grasped the collar of a straggler, who would not
stop at his order, and was discharging at him a perfect torrent
of curses, when, chancing to turn his head, he saw close behind
him no less a personage than the oath-hating and sternly-pious General Stonewall Jackson.

Jackson's aversion to profanity was proverbial in the army.
It was known to excite his extreme displeasure. Colonel W—
therefore stopped abruptly, hung his head, and awaited in silence
the stern rebuke of his superior.

It came in these words, uttered in the mildest tone:

“That's right, Colonel—get 'em up!”

Another anecdote of Jackson—but this one, I fear, has erept
into print. Some readers, however, may not have seen it.

After Port Republic, the General was riding along the line
when he heard the following colloquy between two soldiers of
the Stonewall Brigade.

“Curse the Yankees! I wish they were in hell, every one of
them!”

“I don't.”

“Why don't you?”

“Because if they were, Old Jack would be following 'em up
close, with the old Stonewall Brigade in front!”

Jackson's face writhed into a grin; from his lips a low laugh
issued; but he rode on in silence, making no comment.

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General C—was proverbial for his stubborn courage and
bulldog obstinacy in a fight. In every battle his brigade was
torn to pieces—for he would never leave the ground until he
was hurled back from it, crushed and bleeding.

The views of such a man on the subject of military courage
are worth knowing. He gave them to me briefly one day, on
the battle-field.

Here is the statement of General C—.

“The man who says that he likes to go into an infantry charge,
such as there was at Spotsylvania—is a liar!”

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PART III. OUTLINES FROM THE OUTPOST.

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My friend, Lieutenant T—, is a beau garcon. He is tall,
comely, about nineteen, and calls a very illustrious personage
“Cousin Robert.” He wears a hat with a wide rim, and an
ebon feather “floating free” as becomes a cavalry officer; around
his waist a black leather belt holds his pistol; huge horseman's
boots reach above his knees, and afford him in his leisure moments
a very great resource in pulling them up.

Many idle hours have afflicted my friend lately in consequence
of the cessation of hostilities. He has spent his time chiefly in
whittling sticks, which proves an unfailing, though not exciting
resource to him. While whittling he talks, and he is a gay and
delightful companion; relating his adventures with a charming
nonchalance, and laughing “in the pauses.” Though still young,
he has had numerous experiences of a stirring character. In
Maryland, just before the battle of Sharpsburg, he was taken
prisoner, and had a private interview with General McClellan,
who had known some of his relations, and sent for him. The
General, he declares, was a very pleasant personage, and very
much of a gentleman; easy, bland, smiling; and asked “how
many brigades of cavalry. Stuart had.” Whereto my friend
replied evasively, when the General added, laughing:

“Oh, I merely asked to satisfy my private curiosity—not to
extract information.”

“Of course, General.”

“I have heard he had four brigades.”

“If you have heard that, of course it must be so, General.”

Laughter from General McClellan, and friendly termination

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of the interview. The General, he says, was “quite a gentleman,”
and ordered him to be released on his parole to return to
and remain in the county of Fauquier until he was exchanged.
Returned there; and was still at home when—McClellan's head
having fallen—Burnside came along, when he was arrested as a
suspicious character, and taken before the new commander,
Burnside, portly, polite, not at all stern—rather good-humoured.
T—gave an account of himself, and was released and sent
back to his home in Fauquier. Here he remained until a scouting
party of his friends came in, when he had himself captured
and returned to the army. He did not make this return journey
on foot. He was mounted, as became a cavalier—but on a white
mule. This white mule was not, however, a portion of his
patrimonial property of a movable character. He procured it
from a Northern friend in the following manner: he was wearily
walking along the road, and saw a “blue-bird” approach him,
mounted on the mule in question. He was unarmed, but so
was my friend—and the Lieutenant immediately, in a voice of
thunder, ordered him to get down and surrender. The blue-bird
obeyed, and the Lieutenant mounted—magnanimously permitting
his prisoner to go free, inasmuch as he had no means of
securing him. Having paroled him formally, he made haste out
of the line.

Such is the young Lieutenant who, having nothing to do,
whittles sticks.

He has a comrade whose name is Lieutenant H—. This
young gentleman is of about the same age, and his countenance
is comely and smooth. His manners are unusually soft and
mild, and he spends all his leisure in reading. He is familiar
with Shakspeare, and quotes that great bard, going through all
the attitudes, and astonishing the bystanders. Having mounted
my horse some days since to visit a young lady, I was suddenly
startled by the appearance of Lientenant H—, who, leaning
one hand on my knee, struck an attitude, and broke forth, “Tell
her she's the sun, and I the moon! Arise, fair sun, and shine
upon my night!” Having entrusted me with this commission,
my friend returned in silence to his literary pursuits. The

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Lieutenant is so mild and comely of face, that he has been declared
to be “like a girl.” But he is a man, and a dangerous one,
when after the blue-coats. He is devoted to these, and pays
them his respects upon all occasions. He is fond of reading,
but greatly prefers fighting. Happily married, and keeping
house with his helpmate, in camp, he is still impatient at the
idlesse of the times. Like his friend, Lieutenant T—, he is
longing for some movement, and sustains the dull days with
difficulty.

If the characters of my two friends are sufficiently indicated
by the above sketch, the reader will comprehend with what
pleasure they obtained permission in December last (1862) to go
on a romantic little scout into the lines of the enemy, beyond
the Rappahannock. Burnside was then getting ready to cross
at Fredericksburg, and his cavalry scouted daily along the north
bank of the river, up and down—so the commission of entering
King George was an exciting one, promising no little adventure.

But to procure information of the enemy's designs was only a
part of their orders—the most agreeable portion remains behind.
They were directed not only to spy out the land, and the position
of the foe, but also to escort a young lady, then in King
George county, through the enemy's lines into our own. As
the reader will imagine, this was far from disagreeable to the
chivalric young officers; and they made their preparations with
alacrity.

Leaving their swords behind, as calculated to impede their
movements when they entered the enemy's country, as they
must do, on foot, they took only pistol and carbine, and set out
for a point down the river.

The place which they chose for crossing was Port Royal, that
lovely little village which nestles down prettily, like a bird, in
the green fields—and here, leaving their horses at the house of
a friend, they were taken across in a canoe, by a sympathizing
boatman, and landed on the northern bank.

From that moment it was necessary to bring into play all the
keenness and ready faculties of the woodman and the scout.

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They were armed, as I have said, with pistol and carbine; but
these were of little use against the enemy, who, if encountered
at all, would outnumber and overpower them. Their only hopes
of success lay in eluding such scouting parties as they came
across, and “snaking it” to their destination and back again.

Soon after leaving the river their adventures commenced.
Avoiding the roads, and making their way through the woods,
they came all at once upon a large Federal camp, and passed so
near it that they could hear the words uttered by the soldiers,
but fortunately the darkness of the night prevented them from
being seen. Leaving the camp to the right, they continued
their way, walking all night, and giving a wide berth to such
picket fires as they saw glimmering near their route. They thus
reached in safety the house of a lady whom one of the party
knew, and where they were certain of food and rest. These
were now greatly needed by the young adventurers. Their
tramp had been exciting and prolonged, over very rough ground—
they had not tasted food since the preceding day—and the
whole night had been spent upon the road, or rather in the
woods, without rest or sleep.

Reaching the hospitable mansion about day break, they aroused
the lady, and informed her, in a few words, of their object.
“Up went the hushed amaze of hand and eye,” as the English
laureate says; but the worthy dame acted quickly. Without
stopping to parley she admitted them, closed the door, and had
an excellent breakfast prepared at once. Having done full
honour to the meal, the young men, worn out with fatigue and
want of sleep, went to bed, and slept several hours, quite oblivious
of the fact that they were far within the lines of the
enemy, and subject at any moment to be “caught napping.”

Rising at last, the first thing which they did was to look
around for something more to eat! It was ready on the table,
awaiting them, and they attacked the substantial viands as if
they had not eaten before for a month. Some excellent cider
accompanied the solids—and this, it appeared, was a present
from a young lady who, living close by, had been informed of
their presence, and thus manifested her sympathy.

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As they rose from the table, the young lady in question entered
the dining-room; and looking very attentively at Lieutenant
T—, said, smiling:

“I have your picture, sir!”

The young man was naturally astonished at the announcement,
as he had certainly never seen the young girl before; and
said, with a laugh, that she must be mistaken.

“No, indeed I am not,” was the smiling reply; “are you not
Lieutenant T—?”

“Yes, madam.”

“As I thought.”

And the explanation followed. The young lady had a cousin
who had gone to school with Lieutenant T—, and the two had
become great friends. When they parted, they had recourse to
a friendly means of remembering each other, very common with
young men—they had their daguerreotypes taken together, both
in the same picture, and each took one. The young lady's cousin
had presented his own to her; and thus as soon as she saw
Lieutenant T—, she recognised the original of the friend of
whom her cousinhad often spoken.

This romantic little incident was far from putting the young
adventurers in a bad humour with their enterprise. They tarried
at the house of the hospitable dame long enough to become excellent
friends with the pretty maiden, and to procure all the information
which the ladies could give them. Then, as soon as
the shades of evening drew on, they took up the line of march
again toward their destination—passing more Federal camps, but
running the gauntlet successfully between them all—and arriving
safely.

Disappointment awaited them here. The fair lady whom they
came to carry off to the “happy land of Dixie,” was not ready to
return with them. For some reason—doubtless a good one,
which I may have heard, but have now forgotten—she determined
to remain where she was; and the young men, having secured
valuable information of the number and positions of the enemy,
set out on their return.

They succeeded, after many adventures, in reaching the

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vicinity of the river again. To recross was the great difficulty—for
there was no longer a sympathizing friend near at hand with a
boat. In addition to this, the banks were at this point thoroughly
picketed, and they were in danger of being stopped by a musket-ball
if they even secured a canoe.

The attempt to cross was necessary to be made, however. It
was now night, and if they were detained on the north bank of
the Rappahannock until the next day, they would be in imminent
danger of capture.

They accordingly set to work. Necessity, the benign mother of
invention, pointed out two logs, lying in a sort of marsh, on the
edge of the stream; and these logs the young men proceeded to
lash together. Having no cords of any description, they used
their suspenders, and finally succeeded in launching the impromptu
raft upon the stream.

As it floated off, they found all at once that they were moving
into view of a sentinel posted upon the rising ground beyond
the swampy bottom; and every moment expected to be chal
lenged—the challenge to be succeeded by the whizzing of balls.

The enterprise terminated for the moment, differently, however.
The raft had been constructed without very profound science;
the suspenders gave way; and Lieutenant T—found himself
astraddle one log, and Lieutenant H—the other.

Grand tableau!—and the aforesaid “happy land of Dixie” as
far off as ever!

They were forced to return to the northern bank, which they
succeeded in doing with difficulty, and “as wet as drowned rats.”
It was necessary to scout along the stream, to find if possible
some better means of crossing. This river is difficult to pass—
General Burnside was, at the same moment, engaged in the same
task which absorbed the energies of the gay youths.

Ascending the bank, and flanking the picket, they plunged
into the wood, and struck down the river.

They were not to be so fortunate as before.

Seeing no picket-fires for a long way ahead, they ventured
into the road—but were suddenly startled by the tramp of cavalry
coming toward them from below.

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They leaped the ditch and brushwood fence, and were about to
scud across the field, when the troop was upon them, and discovered
the moving figures in the dim starlight.

“Halt!” came from the officer in command, as he drew up;
and seeing that their further progress would be arrested by a
shower of carbine balls, the young men threw themselves upon
the ground close beside the brush fence, trusting to the darkness
to hide them.

“I certainly saw men there,” said the officer.

“I don't think it was anything but cows,” said another voice.

“Send a man to see.”

And a trooper pushed across into the field, and rode up to the
truants, who, finding themselves discovered, put the best face
upon the matter.

They were conducted to the officer in command, who said:

“Who are you?”

“Third Indiana Cavalry,” responded Lieutenant T—,
promptly.

“What are you doing here, away from your regiment?”

“We were left behind, sick, sir,” was the reply, “and sent on
our horses with the baggage. We are now looking for the
camp.”

This was uttered in the most plausible manner imaginable, and
as the darkness hid the young man's Confederate uniform, there
was nothing suspicious about him to the eyes of the officer. The
two youths seemed to be what they represented themselves—
stragglers or sick, trying to rejoin their companies—and no
doubts appeared to rest upon the Federal Captain's mind.

He reprimanded them for dodging about, and proceeded on his
way—taking the precaution, however, of a good officer, of leaving
a mounted man in charge of them, with orders to conduct them
to the camp of the regiment to which he belonged, about half a
mile distant, and report to the Colonel.

The troop was soon out of sight, and the cavalry-man and his
prisoners proceeded slowly in the same direction; their conductor
holding a cocked pistol in his right hand.

The young men exchanged glances. Now or never was their

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opportunity. In fact, something more than loss of liberty was
involved in their capture. They had represented themselves as
members of the Third Indiana Cavalry; were within the Federal
lines; they were clearly reducible under the head of spies; and
in that character would have a short shrift and a stout rope for
their pains.

The camp was near, the time short, action was necessary.

To action they accordingly proceeded.

Lieutenant H—, as I have said, is young; has an engagingly
girlish expression of countenance, and his voice is as bland
and kindly as possible.

“You have a good horse, there, my friend,” said Lieutenant
H— mildly, and with an innocent smile.

“Yes, sir,” was the reply; “as good a horse as ever was
foaled in the State of York.”

“What stock is he?” continued Lieutenant H—, softly;
and he laid his hand on the rein as he spoke.

Before the cavalry-man could reply, Lieutenant H— made
a sudden clutch at the pistol which the trooper held; missed it,
and found the muzzle instantly thrust into his face.

It was quickly discharged, and again, and again; but strange
to say, not a single ball took effect.

Lieutenant H— retreated, and the trooper turned round
and rode at Lieutenant T—, who was armed with a carbine
which he had borrowed from me for the expedition.

As the trooper rode at him, he raised the weapon, took aim,
and fired. In narrating this portion of his adventures, the Lieutenant
says:

“I don't know whether I killed him, but he gurgled in his
throat, his horse whirled round and ran, and fifty yards off, he
fell from the saddle.”

To continue my narrative. The situation of the youths was
more critical than ever after the “suppression” of the trooper.
The company of cavalry were not far off; the firing had certainly
been heard, and a detachment would speedily be sent back to
inquire what had occasioned it, even if the riderless horse did
not announce fully all that had taken place. No time was to be

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lost, and the adventurous youths leaped the brush fence, ran
across the field, and took shelter in a pine thicket, through which
they continued to advance as before, down the river.

They did not observe any signs of pursuit, and after a weary
march, reached the vicinity of Port Conway.

One more incident occurred.

Toward daylight they found themselves near a country house
on the river bank. Half dead for want of food, for they had
eaten nothing since the forenoon of the preceding day, they ventured
to approach the building, and knocked at the door.

No reply came; no evidence that the place was inhabited.
They knocked again, and this time were more successful.

An upper window of the house was raised, the head of a lady
in coiffure de nuit thrust out, and a voice asked—

“Who is there?”

“Friends,” returned Lieutenant T—, at a venture; “we are
worn out with hunger and fatigue, and want a little bread and
rest.”

“The old story!” returned the voice; “I am tired of you
stragglers.”

“Stragglers!”

“Yes; there are thousands of you going about and plundering
people. You can't come in!”

And the head made a motion to retire.

My friend, Lieutenant T—, is an intelligent youth. He
understands readily, and an instant sufficed to make him comprehend
that he and his friend were refused admittance because
they were regarded as Yankees. There were no other “stragglers”
in that region; it was plain how the land lay in regard
to the fair lady's sentiments, and the result of these quick reflections
was the reply:

“We are not Yankees, we are Confederates!”

At these words the head all at once returned to the framework
of the window.

“Confederates!” exclaimed the head; “you are trying to
deceive me.”

“Indeed we are not!”

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“What are you doing over here?”

“We came across on a scout, and are now going back. We
were captured by a party of cavalry, but got away from them,
and are pushing down the river to find a place to cross.”

“Are you telling me the truth?”

“Indeed we are.”

“What is your name?”

“Lieutenant T— T—.”

“What is the name of your home?”

“Kinloch.”

“What is your father's name?”

The young man gave it.

“Your mother's name?”

He gave that, also.

“You are my cousin!” said the lady, completely satisfied;
“wait and I will come down and let you in.”

Who will doubt about the clans of Virginia after that!

The good lady, who was really a relative of Lieutenant T—,
admitted them, gave them a warm welcome, and a hot breakfast;
had her best beds prepared for them; and as before, they
proved mighty trenchermen; after which they proceeded to sleep
like the seven champions of Christendom.

On the same afternoon they succeeded in procuring a canoe,
bade their good hostess farewell, and crossed the river, just in
time to hear the roar of the cannon at Fredericksburg. These
events had passed between the tenth and thirteenth days of
December.

I have used no colours of fancy in narrating the adventure;
my sketch is a simple statement of facts, which I hope will
amuse some of my readers.

Lieutenant T— related the incidents of the trip with cheerful
laughter, and wound up by saying, as he sat by the blazing
fire in my tent:

“I tell you, I am glad to get back here, Captain!”

-- --

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I WAS sitting in my tent one day in the year 1863, idly gazing
over a newspaper, when my eye fell upon the following paragraph:

Killed on the Blackwater.—We learn that Captain Edelin, of
the old First Maryland Regiment, but who recently joined the
Confederate forces in North Carolina, was killed a few days since
in a skirmish on the Blackwater.”

I laid down the paper containing this announcement, and
speedily found myself indulging in reverie.

“Thus fall,” I murmured, “from the rolls of mortality the
names we have known, uttered, been familiar with! The beings
with whom we are thrown, whose hands we touch, whose voices
we hear, who smile or frown as the spirit moves them, are to-morrow
beyond the stars. They are extinguished like the fitful
and wandering fires of evening—like those will-o'-wisps which
dance for an hour around the fields and then disappear in the
gathering darkness!”

This “Captain Edelin, of the old First Maryland Regiment,”
I had chanced to know. It was but a moment—his face passed
before me like a dream, never more to return; but reading that
paragraph announcing his death recalled him to me clearly as I
saw and talked with him one night on the outpost, long ago.

Captain Edelin once arrested me at my own request.

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Let me recall in detail, the incidents which led to this acquaintance
with him.

It was, I think, in December, 1861.

I was at that time Volunteer A. D. C. to General Stuart of the
cavalry, and was travelling from Leesburg to his headquarters,
which were on the Warrenton road, between Fairfax and Centreville.

I travelled in a light one-horse vehicle, an unusual mode of conveyance
for a soldier, but adopted for the convenience it afforded
me in transporting my blankets, clothes, sword, and other personal
effects, which would certainly have sunk a horseman fathoms
deep in the terrible mud of the region, there to remain like the
petrified Roman sentinel dug out from Pompeii.

The vehicle in question was drawn by a stout horse, who was
driven by a cheerful young African; and achieving an ultimate
triumph over the Gum Spring road, we debouched into the
Little River turnpike, and came past the “Double Toll-gate” to
the Frying Pan road.

Here the first picket halted me. But the Lieutenant of the
picket took an intelligent view of things, and suffered me to
continue the road to Centreville.

Toward that place, accordingly, I proceeded, over the beforementioned
“Frying Pan,” which, like the “Charles City road”
below Richmond, means anything you choose.

Night had fully set in by the time I reached Meacham's, a
mile from Centreville; and I then remembered for the first time
that general orders forbade the entrance of carriages of any
descriptioni into the camp.

This general order, in its special application to myself, was
disagreeable. In fact, it was wanton cruelty, and for the following
good reasons.


1. I was tired and hungry.

2. That was my route to the headquarters I sought.

3. By any other road I should arrive too late for supper.

This reasoning appeared conclusive, but there was the inexorable
order; and some method of flanking Centreville must be
devised.

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The method presented itself in a road branching off to the left,
which I immediately turned into. A small house presented
itself, and inquiring the way, I was informed by a cheerful-looking
matron that the road in question was the very one which
“led to the turnpike.”

Never did Delphic oracle make a more truthful or a falser
announcement. It was the Warrenton turnpike which I desired
to reach by flanking Centreville, and cutting off the angle—and
lo! with a cheerful heart, I was journeying, as will be seen, toward
other regions!

The vehicle proceeded on its way without further pause,
merrily gliding along the forest road between dusky pine
thickets, the heart of the wandering soldier inspired by the vision
of an early supper.

The evening was mild for December—the heavens studded
with stars. Now that I had found the road, and would soon
arrive, the landscape became picturesque and attractive.

Lonely cavalrymen appeared and disappeared; scrutinizing
eyes reconnoitred the suspicious vehicle as it passed; noises of
stamping horses were heard in the depths of the thicket. But
accustomed to these sights and sounds, the adventurous traveller
in search of lodging and supper did not disquiet himself.

Mile after mile was thus traversed. Still the interminable road
through the pines stretched on and on. Its terminus seemed as
distant as the crack of doom.

Most mysterious of mysteries! The Warrenton turnpike did
not appear, though I knew it was but a mile or two through to it.
Where was it? Had it disappeared under the influence of some
enchantment? Had I dreamed that I knew the country thoroughly,
from having camped there so long, and had I never in reality
visited it? It so appeared; I was certainly travelling over a
road which I had never before traversed.

One resource remained—philosophy. To that I betook myself.
When a traveller of philosophic temperament finds that he
has lost his way, he is apt to argue the matter with cheerful logic
as follows:

1. The road I am following must lead somewhere.

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2. At that “somewhere,” which I am sure eventually to reach,
I shall find some person who will have the politeness to inform
me in what part of the globe I am.

Having recourse to this mode of reasoning, I proceeded through
the pines with a cheerful spirit, entered a large field through
which the road ran, and at the opposite extremity “stumbled on
a stationary voice.”

This voice uttered the familiar

“Halt! Who goes there?”

“Friend without the countersign.”

“Advance, friend!”

I jumped out and walked to the voice, which remained stationary.

“I am going to General Stuart's headquarters. Came from
Leesburg and have no countersign. This is a picket?”

“Yes.”

“Where is the officer of the picket?”

“At the fire yonder. I will go with you.”

“Then you are not the sentinel?”

“No; the serjeant.”

And the serjeant and myself walked amicably towards the
picket fire, which was burning under a large tree, just on the
side of the turnpike.

The turnpike! Alas!

But, as the novelists say, “let us not anticipate.”

At the picket fire I found half-a-dozen men, neatly dressed
in Confederate gray.

“Which is the officer of the picket?” I said to the Serjeant.

“The small man—Captain Edelin.”

As he spoke Captain Edelin advanced to the foreground of the
picture, and the ruddy firelight gave me, at a glance, an idea of
the worthy.

He was about five feet six inches high, with a supple figure—

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legs bent like those of a man who rides much—and a keen pair
of eyes, which roved restlessly. His boots reached to the knee;
an enormous sword clattered against them as he walked. The
worthy Captain Edelin was no bad representative of Captain
D'Artagnan, the hero of Dumas' “Three Guardsmen.”

When the Captain fixed his eyes upon me, he seemed to aim
at reading me through. When he questioned me he evidently
scrutinized my words carefully, and weighed each one.

Such a precaution was not unreasonable. The period was
critical, the time “dangerous.” Our generals entertained well
grounded fears that the enemy designed a flank movement on Centreville,
up this very road, either to attack Johnston and Beauregard's
left, or to cut off Evans at Leesburg, and destroy him
before succour could reach him. I was personally cognizant of
the fact that General Evans suspected such an attack, from conversation
with him in Leesburg, and was not surprised to find,
as I soon did, that the road over which the enemy must advance
to assail him was heavily picketed all along its extent in the
direction of Fairfax.

If this “situation” be comprehended by the reader, he will
not fail to understand why the Captain scrutinized me closely.
I was a stranger to him, had passed through the Confederate
lines, and was now far to the front. If I was in the Federal service
I had learned many things which would interest General
McClellan. Spies took precautions in accommodating their
dress and entire appearance to the rôle they were to play; and
why might I not be a friend of his Excellency President Lincoln,
wearing a Confederate uniform for the convenience of travelling?

So Captain Edelin scanned me with great attention, his eyes
trying to plunge to the bottom of my breast, and drag forth some
imaginary plot against the cause.

Being an old soldier of some months' standing, and experiencing
the pangs of hunger, I rapidly came to the point. Something
like the following dialogue passed between us:

“Captain Edelin, officer of the picket?” I inquired.

“Yes, sir,” returned the worthy, with a look which said, as
plainly as any words, “Who are you?”

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I responded to the mute appeal:

“I am Aide to General Stuart, and in search of his
headquarters. I have no countersign. I left Leesburg this
morning, and to-night lost my way. What road is that yonder?”

“The Little River turnpike.”

“The Little River turnpike?”

“Yes.”

Then it all flashed on my bewildered brain! I had missed
the road which cut off the angle at Centreville, had taken a
wrong one in the dark, and been travelling between the two turnpikes
towards Fairfax, until chance brought me out upon the
Little River road, not far from “Chantilly.”

I stood for a moment looking at the Captain with stupefaction,
and then began to laugh.

“Good!” I said. “I should like particularly to know how
I got here. I thought I knew the country thoroughly, and that
this was the Warrenton road.”

“Which way did you come?” asked the Captain, suspiciously.

“By the Frying Pan road. I intended to take the short cut
to the left of Centreville.”

“You have come three or four miles out of the way.”

“I see I have—pleasant. Well, it won't take me much
longer than daylight to arrive, I suppose, at this rate.”

The Captain seemed to relish this cheerful view of the subject,
and the ghost of a smile wandered over his face.

“How far is it to General Stuart's headquarters?” I asked;
“and which road do I take?”

“That's just what I can't tell you.”

“Well, there's no difficulty about going on, I suppose? Here
are my papers; look at them.”

And I handed them to him. He read them by the firelight,
and returning them, said:

“That's all right, Captain, but—sorry—orders—unless you
have the countersign—”

“The countersign! But you are going to give me that?”

The Captain shook his head.

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“Hang it, Captain, you don't mean to say you have the heart
to keep me here all night?”

“Orders must be obeyed—”

“Why, you are not really going to take possession of me? I
don't mind it for myself, as I have my blankets, and you will
give me some supper; but there's my horse without a mouthful
since morning.”

“That's bad; but—'

“You don't know me; I understand you. These papers, my
uniform, all may be got up for the occasion; still—”

“That's a fact; and you know orders are orders. On duty—
can't know anybody; and I'd like to see the man that can catch
Edelin asleep. My boys are just about the best trained fellows
you ever saw, and can see in the dark.”

“I have no doubt of it, Captain.”

“Just about the best company to be found.”

“I believe you.”

This cheerful acquiescence seemed to please the worthy.

“We're on picket here, and a mouse couldn't get through.”

“Exactly; and I wouldn't mind staying with you the least if
I had some supper.”

“Sorry you didn't come a little sooner; I could have given
you some.”

“See what I've missed; and after travelling all day, one gets
as hungry as a hawk. I'm afraid General Stuart's supper will
be eat up to the last mouthful.”

This seemed to affect the Captain. He had supped; I, his
brother soldier, had not.

“I'll tell you what,” he said, “I'll pass you through my
picket, but you can't get on to-night. Major Wheat's pickets
are every ten yards along the turnpike, and it would take you
all night to work your way.”

“Cheerful.”

“The best thing is to stay here.”

“I'd much rather get on.”

“But I can't even tell you the road to turn off on. I have no
one to send.”

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As he spoke an idea struck me.

“What regiment is yours, Captain?” I asked.

“The First Maryland—as fine a regiment—”

“Who's your Colonel?”

“Bradley Johnson.”

“Well, arrest me, and take me to him.”

The Captain laughed.

“That would be best,” he said. “The Colonel's head-quarters
are in a small house just across the field. I'll go with you.”

So we set out, the huge sword of the worthy clattering against
his tall boots as he strode along. On the way he related at considerable
length the exploits of his Maryland boys, and renewed
his assurances of sympathy with my supperless condition—lamenting
the disappearance of his own.

In fact, I may say with modest pride that I had conquered the
worthy captain. Eloquence had reaped its reward—had had
its “perfect work.” From frigid, the Captain had become lukewarm;
from lukewarm, quite a pleasant glow had diffused itself
through his conversation. Then his accents had become even
friendly: he had offered me a part of his Barmecide supper, and
proposed to pass me through his picket.

I remember very well his short figure as it moved beside me;
his gasconades d la D'Artagnan; and his huge sabre, bobbing as
he walked. The end of it trailed upon the ground—so short
was the Captain's stature, so mighty the length of his weapon.

He strode on rapidly, talking away; and we soon approached
a small house in the middle of the large field, through whose
window a light shone.

In this house Colonel Bradley Johnson had established his
headquarters.

The Captain knocked; was bidden to enter, and went in—I
following.

“A prisoner, Colonel,” said the Captain.

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“Ah!” said Colonel Bradley Johnson, who was lying on his
camp bed.

“At my own request, Colonel.”

And pulling off one of a huge pair of gauntlets, I stuck a
paper at him.

Colonel Johnson—than whom no braver soldier or more delightful
companion exists—glanced at the document, then at me,
and made me a bow.

“All right. From Leesburg, Captain?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any news?”

“None at all. All quiet.”

“Are you going to General Stuart's headquarters to-night?”

“If I can find the road.”

“I really don't know it. I know where it is, but—”

“It will be necessary to send me, I suppose, Colonel?”

“Necessary?”

“I am a prisoner, you know, and I think General Stuart is in
command of the outpost.”

The Colonel began to laugh.

“That's true,” he said.

And turning round, he uttered the word—

“Courier.”

Now “courier” was evidently the designation of a gentleman
who at that moment was stretching himself luxuriously in one
corner of the room, drawing over his head a large white blanket,
with the air of a man who has finished his day's work, and is
about to retire to peaceful and virtuous slumber.

From several slight indications, it was obvious that the courier
had just returned after carrying a dispatch, and that he experienced
to its fullest extent the grateful sensation of having performed
all the duty that could be expected of him, and regarded
himself as legally and equitably entitled to at least six hours
sleep, in the fond embrace of his white blanket.

Alas for the mutability of mundane things!—the unstable
character of all human calculations!

Even as he dismounted, and took off his saddle for the night,

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Fate, in the person of the present writer, was on his track. As
he lay down, and wrapped himself luxuriously in that white
blanket, drawing a long breath, and extending his limbs with
Epicurean languor, the aforesaid Fate tapped him on the shoulder,
and bade him rise.

“Courier!”

And the head rose suddenly.

“Saddle up, and go with this gentleman to General Stuart's
headquarters.”

A deep sigh—almost a groan—a slowly rising figure rolling
up a white blanket, and this most unfortunate of couriers disappeared,
no doubt maligning the whole generation of wandering
aides-de-camp, and wishing that they had never been born.

With a friendly good-night to Colonel Johnson, whose hard
work in the field since that time has made his name familiar to
every one, and honourable to his State, I returned in company
with Edelin to the picket fire.

The courier disconsolately followed.

On the way I had further talk with Captain Edelin, and I
found him a jovial companion.

When I left him, we shook hands, and that is the first time
and the last time I ever saw “Captain Edelin of the old First
Maryland Regiment.” It was Monsieur D'Artagnan come to
life, as I have said; and I remembered very well the figure of
the Captain when I read that paragraph announcing his death.

He was a Baltimorean, and I have heard that his company was
made up in the following manner:

When the disturbances took place in Baltimore, in April,
1861, the leaders of the Southern party busied themselves in
organizing the crowds into something like a military body, and
for that purpose divided them into companies, aligning them
where they stood.

A company of about one hundred men was thus formed, and
the person who had counted it off said:

“Who will command this company?”

Two men stepped forward.

“I can drill them,” said the first.

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“I have been through the Mexican war. I can fight them,”
said the other.

The command was given to the latter, and this was Edelin.
When the war commenced, he marched his company out, and
joined the Southern army.

Poor Edelin! He did not know he was arresting his historian
that night on the outpost!

A few words will terminate my account of “How I was arrested.”
I have spoken of the courier supplied me by Colonel
Johnson, and this worthy certainly turned out the most remarkable
of guides. After leaving Captain Edelin's picket, I proceeded
along the turnpike toward Germantown—continuing thus
to follow, as I have said, the very road I had travelled over
when the first picket stopped me at the mouth of the “Frying
Pan.”

I had gone round two sides of a triangle and was quietly advancing
as I might have done over the same route!

There was this disagreeable difference, however, that the night
was now dark; that the pickets were numerous and on the alert;
that neither I nor the courier knew the precise point to turn off;
and that Wheat's “Tigers,” then on picket, had an eccentric idea
that everybody stirring late at night, at such a time, was a
Yankee, and to be fired upon instantly. This had occurred more
than once—they had shot at couriers—and as they had no fires
you never knew when a picket was near.

This was interesting, but not agreeable. To have a friendly
“Tiger” regret the mistake and be sorry for killing you is something,
but not affecting seriously the general result.

Such appeared to be the view taken by my friend the courier.
He was in a tremendous state of excitement. I was not composed
myself; but my disquiet was connected with the idea of
supper, which I feared would be over. A day's fasting had
made me ravenous, and I hurried my driver constantly.

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This proceeding filled my friend the courier with dire forebodings.
He several times rode back from his place some fifty
yards in advance to beg me pathetically to drive slower—he
could not hear the challenge if I drove so fast, and “they would
shoot!” This view I treated with scorn, and the result was,
that my guide was nearly beside himself with terror.

He besought me to be prudent; but as his idea of prudence
was to walk slowly along, listening with outstretched neck and
eager ears for the challenge of the pickets from the shadow of
the huge trees, and to shout out the countersign immediately
upon being halted, with a stentorian voice which could be heard
half a mile; as his further views connected with the proprieties
of the occasion seemed to impel him to hold long and confidential
conversations with the “Tigers,” to the effect that he and I
were, in the fullest sense of the term, “all right;” that I was
Aide to General Stuart; that I had come that day from Leesburg;
that I had lost my way; that I was not a suspicious character;
that he was in charge of me—as this method of proceeding, I say,
seemed to constitute the prudence which he urged upon me so
eloquently, I treated his remonstrances and arguments with rude
and hungry disregard.

Instead of waiting quietly while he palavered with the sentinels,
I broke the dialogue by the rough and impolite words to
the sentinel:

“Do you know the road which leads in to General Stuart's
headquarters?”

“No, sir.”

“Drive on!”

And again the vehicle rolled merrily along, producing a terrible
rattle as it went, and filling with dismay the affrighted courier,
who, I think, gave himself up for lost.

But I am dwelling at too great length upon my “guide, philosopher,
and friend,” the courier, and these subsequent details of
my journey. I have told how I was arrested—a few words will
end my sketch.

We soon reached the “Ox Hill Road,” and here some information
was obtained.

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A friendly and intelligent “Tiger,” with a strong Irish brogue,
declared that this was the route, and I proceeded over a horrible
road into the woods.

A mile brought me to camp fires and troops asleep—no answer
greeted my shout, and, getting out of the carriage, I went
through a sort of abattis of felled trees, and stirred up a sleeper
wrapped to the nose in his blanket.

“Which is the road to General Stuart's headquarters?” I asked.

“Don't know, sir.”

And the head disappeared under the blanket.

“What regiment is this?”

The nose re-appeared.

“Tigers.”

Then the blanket was wrapped around the peaceful Tiger,
who almost instantly began to snore.

A little further the road forked, and I took that one which
led toward a glimmering light. That light reached, my troubles
ended. It was the headquarters of Major Wheat, who poured
out his brave blood, in June, 1862, on the Chickahominy, and I
speedily received full directions. Ere long I reached Mellen's,
my destination, in time for supper, as well as a hearty welcome
from the best of friends and generals.

So ends my story, gentle reader. It cannot be called a “thrilling
narrative,” but is true, which is something after all in these
“costermonger times.”

At least, this is precisely “How I was arrested.”

-- --

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Among the daring partisans of the war, few have rendered such
valuable services to the cause as Captain John S. Mosby.

His exploits would furnish material for a volume which would
resemble rather a romance than a true statement of actual occurrences.
He has been the chief actor in so many raids, encounters,
and adventures, that his memoirs, if he committed them to
paper, would be regarded as the efforts of fancy. Fortunately,
there is very little fancy about “official reports,” which deal with
naked facts and figures, and those reports of these occurrences
are on record.

It is only necessary to glance at the Captain to understand that he was cut out for a partisan leader. His figure is slight,
muscular, supple, and vigorous; his eye is keen, penetrating,
ever on the alert; he wears his sabre and pistol with the air of
a man who sleeps with them buckled around his waist; and
handles them habitually, almost unconsciously. The Captain is
a determined man in a charge, dangerous on a scout, hard to
outwit, and prone to “turn up” suddenly where he is least
expected, and bang away with pistol and carbine.

His knowledge of the enemy's character is extensive and profound;
his devices to deceive them are rarely unsuccessful.
Take in proof of this a trifling occurrence some time since, in the
neighbourhood of Warrenton. The enemy's cavalry, in strong
force, occupied a position in front of the command which Captain

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Mosby accompanied. Neither side had advanced, and, in the
lull which took place, the Captain performed the following
amusing little comedy: taking eight or ten men, he deployed
them as skirmishers in front of an entire brigade of the enemy,
and at a given signal from him, they advanced steadily, firing
their carbines as they did so, without further intermission than
the time necessarily spent in reloading. This manæuvre was
executed with such spirit and apparent design to attack in force
that the enemy were completely taken in. As the sharpshooters
advanced, led on gallantly by the Captain, who galloped about
cheering his imaginary squadrons, the enemy were seized with a
sudden panic, wavered, and gave way, thus presenting the comic
spectacle of an entire brigade retiring before a party of eight or
ten sharpshooters.

This is only one of a thousand affairs in which Captain Mosby
has figured, proving himself possessed of the genius of a true
partisan. If I could here relate these adventurous occurrences,
the reader would soon comprehend how steady the Captain's
nerve is, how ready his resources in an emergency, and how
daring his conception and execution. For the present, I must
content myself with one recent adventure, prefacing it with a
statement which will probably throw some light upon the
motives of the chief actor, and the feelings which impelled him
to undertake the expedition.

In the summer of 1862, Captain Mosby was sent from Hanover
Court-House on a mission to General Jackson, who was then
on the Upper Rapidan. He was the bearer of an oral communication,
and as the route was dangerous, had no papers about him
except a brief note to serve as a voucher for his identity and
reliability. With this note, the Captain proceeded on his journey,
and stopping at Beaver Dam Station on the Virginia Cenral
Railroad, to rest and feed his horse, was, while quietly sitting
on the platform at the depot, surprised and bagged by a detachment
of the enemy's cavalry.

Now, to be caught thus napping, in an unguarded moment, was
gall and wormwood to the brave Captain. He had deceived and
outwitted the enemy so often, and had escaped from their clutches

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so regularly up to that time, that to find himself surprised thus
filled him with internal rage. From that moment his sentiments
toward them increased in intensity. They had been all along
decidedly unfriendly—they were now bitter. They took him
away with them, searched him, appropriated his credentials, published
them as an item of interest in the Northern papers, and
immured the partisan in the Old Capitol.

In due course of time he was exchanged. He returned with a
handsome new satchel and increased affection for his friends
across the way. He laughed at his misfortunes, but set down
the account to the credit of the enemy, to be settled at a more
convenient opportunity.

Since that time the Captain has been regularly engaged in
squaring his account. He has gone to work with a thorough air
of business. Under an energy and perseverance so systematic
and undeviating the account has been gradually reduced, item
by item.

On the night of Sunday, the eighth of March, 1863, it may
fairly be considered that the account was discharged. To come
to the narrative of the event alluded to, and which it is the
design of this paper to describe:

Previous to the eighth of March Captain Mosby had put
himself to much trouble to discover the strength and positions of
the enemy in Fairfax county, with the design of making a raid
in that direction, if circumstances permitted. The information
brought to him was as follows: On the Little River turnpike at
Germantown, a mile or two distant from Fairfax, were three
regiments of the enemy's cavalry, commanded by Colonel
Wyndham, Acting Brigadier-General, with his headquarters at
the Court-House. Within a few hundred yards of the town
were two infantry regiments. In the vicinity of Fairfax Station,
about two miles off, an infantry brigade was encamped. And
at Centreville there was another infantry brigade, with cavalry
and artillery.

Thus the way to Fairfax Court-House, the point which the
Captain desired to reach, seemed completely blocked up with
troops of all arms—infantry, artillery, and cavalry. If he

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attempted to approach by the Little River turnpike, Colonel
Wyndham's troopers would meet him full in front. If he tried
the route by the Warrenton turnpike, a brigade of infantry,
with cavalry to pursue and artillery to thunder at him, was first
to be defeated. If he glided in along the railroad, the brigade at
Fairfax Station was in his track.

The “situation” would have appeared desperate to almost any
one, however adventurous, but danger and adventure had attractions
for Captain Mosby. If the peril was great and the probability
of success slender, all the greater would be the glory if
he succeeded. And the temptation was great. At Fairfax
Court-House, the general headquarters of that portion of the
army, Brigadier-General Stoughton and other officers of high
rank were then known to be, and if these could be captured,
great would be his triumph.

In spite of the enormous obstacles which presented themselves
in his path, Captain Mosby determined to undertake no less an
enterprise than entering the town, seizing the officers in their
beds, destroying the huge quantities of public stores, and bearing
off his prisoners in triumph.

The night of Sunday, March 8th, was chosen as favorable to
the expedition. The weather was terrible—the night as dark as
pitch—and it was raining steadily. With a detachment of
twenty-nine men Captain Mosby set out on his raid.

He made his approach from the direction of Aldie. Proceeding
down the Little River turnpike, the main route from the
Court-House to the mountains, he reached a point within about
three miles of Chantilly. Here, turning to the right, he crossed
the Frying Pan road about half-way between Centreville and the
turnpike, keeping in the woods, and leaving Centreville well to
the right. He was now advancing in the tringle which is made
by the Little River and Warrenton turnpikes and the Frying
Pan road. Those who are familiar with the country there will

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easily understand the object of this proceeding. By thus cutting
through the triangle, Captain Mosby avoided all pickets, scouting
parties, and the enemy generally, who would only keep a look-out
for intruders on the main roads.

Advancing in this manner through the woods, pierced with
devious and uncertain paths only, which the dense darkness
scarcely enabled them to follow, the partisan and his little band
finally struck into the Warrenton road, between Centreville and
Fairfax, at a point about midway between the two places. One
dauger had thus been successfully avoided—a challenge from
parties of cavalry on the Little River road, or discovery by the
force posted at Centreville. That place was now in their rear—
they had “snaked” around it and its warders; but the perils of
the enterprise had scarcely commenced. Fairfax Court-House
was still about four miles distant, and it was girdled with cavalry
and infantry. Every approach was guarded, and the attempt to
enter the place seemed desperate, but the Captain determined to
essay it.

Advancing resolutely, he came within a mile and a half of the
place, when he found the way barred by a heavy force. Directly
in his path were the infantry camps of which he had been notified,
and all advance was checked in that direction. The Captain
did not waver in his purpose, however. Making a detour to the
right, and leaving the enemy's camp far to his left, he struck into
the road leading from Fairfax southward to the railroad.

This avenue was guarded like the rest, but by a picket only;
and the Captain knew thoroughly how to deal with these. Before
the sleepy and unsuspicious pickets were aware of their danger,
they found pistols presented at their heads, with the option
of surrender or death presented to them. They surrendered
immediately, were taken in charge, and without further ceremony
Captain Mosby and his band entered the town.

From that moment the utmost silence, energy, and rapidity of
action were requisite. The Captain had designed reaching the
Court-House at midnight, but had been delayed two hours by
mistaking his road in the pitch darkness. It was now two o'clock
in the morning; and an hour and a half, at the very utmost, was

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left him to finish his business and escape before daylight. If
morning found him anywhere in that vicinity he knew that his
retreat would be cut off, and the whole party killed or captured—
and this would have spoiled the whole affair. He accordingly
made his dispositions rapidly, enjoined complete silence, and set
to work in earnest. The small band was divided into detachments,
with special duties assigned to each. Two or three of
these detachments were sent to the public stables which the fine
horses of the General and his staff officers occupied, with instructions
to carry them off without noise. Another party was sent to
Colonel Wyndham's headquarters to take him prisoner. Another
to Colonel Johnson's, with similar orders.

Taking six men with him, Captain Mosby, who proceeded
upon sure information, went straight to the headquarters of
Brigadier-General Stoughton.

The Captain entered his chamber without much ceremony, and
found him asleep in bed.

Making his way toward the bed, in the dark, the partisan
shook him suddenly by the shoulder.

“What is that?” growled the General.

“Get up quick, I want you,” responded the Captain.

“Do you know who I am?” cried the Brigadier, sitting up in
bed, with a scowl. “I will have you arrested, sir!”

“Do you know who I am?” retorted the Captain, shortly.

“Who are you?”

“Did you ever hear of Mosby?”

“Yes! Tell me, have you caught the—rascal!”

“No, but he has caught you!”

And the Captain chuckled.

“What does all this mean, sir!” cried the furious officer.

“It means, sir,” the Captain replied, “that Stuart's cavalry are
in possession of this place, and you are my prisoner. Get up and
come along, or you are a dead man!”

Bitter as was this order, the General was compelled to obey,
and the partisan mounted him, and placed him under guard.
His staff and escort were captured without difficulty, but two of

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the former, owing to the darkness and confusion, subsequently
made their escape.

Meanwhile the other detachments were at work. They entered
the stables, and led out fifty-eight very fine horses, with their
accoutrements, all belonging to officers, and took a number of
prisoners. Hundreds of horses were left, for fear of encumbering
the retreat.

The other parties were less successful. Colonel Wyndham had
gone down to Washington on the preceding day; but his A. A.
General and Aide-de-camp were made prisoners. Colonel Johnson
having received notice of the presence of the party, succeeded in
making his escape.

It was now about half-past three in the morning, and it behoved
Captain Mosby, unless he relished being killed or captured,
to effect his retreat. Time was barely left him to get out
of the lines of the enemy before daylight, and none was to be
lost.

He had intended to destroy the valuable quartermaster, commissary,
and sutler's stores in the place, but these were found to
be in the houses, which it would have been necessary to burn;
and even had the proceeding been advisable, time was wanting.
The band was encumbered by three times as many horses and
prisoners as it numbered men, and day was approaching. The
captain accordingly made his dispositions rapidly for retiring.

The prisoners, thirty-five in number, were as follows:

Brig.-Gen. E. H. Stoughton.

Baron R. Wordener, an Austrian, and Aide de-camp to Col.
Wyndham.

Capt. A. Barker, 5th New York Cavalry.

Col. Wyndham's A. A. General.

Thirty prisoners, chiefly of the 18th Pennsylvania and 1st
Ohio Cavalry, and the telegraph operator at the place.

These were placed upon the captured horses, and the band set
out in silence on their return.

Captain Mosby took the same road which had conducted him
into the Court-H use: that which led to Fairfax Station. But
this was only to deceive the enemy as to his line of retreat, if

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they attempted pursuit. He soon turned off, and pursued the
same road which he had followed in advancing, coming out on
the Warrenton turnpike, about a mile and a half from the
town. This time, finding no guards on the main road, he continued
to follow the turnpike until he came to the belt of woods
which crosses the road about half a mile from Centreville. At
this point of the march, one of the prisoners, Captain Barker,
no doubt counting on aid from the garrison, made a desperate
effort to effect his escape. He broke from his guards, dashed
out of the ranks, and tried hard to reach the fort. He was
stopped, however, by a shot from one of the party, and returned
again, yielding himself a prisoner.

Again turning to the right, the Captain proceeded on his way,
passing directly beneath the frowning fortifications. He passed
so near them that he distinctly saw the bristling muzzles of the
cannon in the embrasures, and was challenged by the sentinel
on the redoubt. Making no reply he pushed on rapidly, for the
day was dawning, and no time was to be lost; passed within a
hundred yards of the infantry pickets without molestation, swam
Cub Run, and again came out on the Warrenton turnpike at
Groveton.

He had passed through all his enemies, flanked Centreville,
was on the open road to the South: he was safe!

-- --

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Yesterday I received a letter from my friend Lieutenant N.
Bumpo, Artillery Corps, P. A. C. S. To-day I have been
thinking of the career of this young gentleman from the outset
of the war.

“Representative men” are profitable subjects for reflection.
They embody in their single persons, the characteristics of whole
classes.

Bumpo is a representative man.

He represents the Virginia youth who would not stay at home,
in spite of every attempt to induce him to do so; who, shouldering
his musket, marched away to the wars; who has put his
life upon the hazard of the die a thousand times, and intends to
go on doing so to the end.

I propose to draw an outline of Lieutenant Bumpo. The
sketch shall be accurate; so accurate that he will be handed
down to future generations—even as he lived and moved during
the years of the great revolution. His grandchildren shall thus
know all about their at present prospective grandpa—and all his
descendants shall honour him. His portrait over the mantel-piece
shall be admiringly indicated, uno digito. The antique cut
of his uniform shall excite laughter. Bumpo will live in every
heart and memory!

He is now seventeen and a half. Tall for his age; gay, smiling;
fond of smoking, laughing, and “fun” generally. I have
said that he is an officer of the Artillery Corps, at present—but
he has been in the infantry and the cavalry.

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He was born in the Valley of Virginia, and spent his youth
in warring on partridges. His aim thus early became unerring.
When the war broke out it found him a boy of some fifteen and
a half—loving all mankind, except the sons of the famous “Pilgrim
Fathers.” Upon this subject Bumpo absorbed the views
of his ancestors.

April, 1861, arrived duly. Bumpo was in the ranks with a
rifle. Much remonstrance and entreaty saluted this proceeding,
but Private Bumpo, of the “—Rifles,” remained obstinate.

“Young?” Why he was FIFTEEN!

“The seed corn should be kept?” But suppose there was
no Southern soil to plant it in?

“A mere boy?”—Boy!!!

And Private Bumpo stalked off with his rifle on his shoulder—
outraged as Coriolanus, who, after having “fluttered the Volsces
in Corioli,” was greeted with the same opprobrious epithet.

Obstinacy is not a praiseworthy sentiment in youth, but I
think that young Bumpo was right. He would have died of
chagrin at home, with his comrades in the service; or his pride
and spirit of haute noblesse would have all departed. It was
better to run the risk of being killed.

So Bumpo marched.

He marched to Harper's Ferry—and thenceforth “Forward—
march!” was the motto of his youthful existence.

Hungry?—“Forward, march!”

Cold?—“Forward, march!”

Tired?—“Forward, march!”

Bumpo continued thenceforth to march. When not marching
he was fighting.

The officer who commanded his brigade was a certain Colonel
Jackson, afterwards known popularly as “Old Stonewall.” This
officer could not bear Yankees, and this tallied exactly with
Private Bumpo's views. He deeply sympathized with the sentiments
of his illustrious leader, and loaded and fired with
astonishing rapidity and animation. At “Falling Water” he “fought and fell back.” Thereafter he marched back and forth,
and was on the Potomac often. A slight historic anecdote

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remains of this period in the Bumpo annals. He was on picket
near the river bank with a friend of ours, when suddenly an old
woman, of hag-like, Macbeth-witch appearance, came in view on
the opposite bank, gesticulating violently to hidden observers
that yonder were the Rebels! The friend of our youth, in a
jocose spirit, fired, as he said, ahead of the old hag to frighten
her—or behind, to put a ball through her flying skirts—but
Bumpo upbraided him with his bloody real intentions. We regret
to say, however, that he afterwards retired behind a tree
and indulged in smothered laughter as the Macbeth-witch disappeared
with floating robes toward her den.

From the Valley, Private Bumpo proceeded rapidly to Manassas,
where he took part in the thickest of the fight, and was
bruised by a fragment of shell. Here he killed his first man.
His cousin, Carey—, fell at his side, and Bumpo saw the soldier
who shot him, not fifty yards off. He levelled his rifle, and
put a ball through his breast. He went down, and Bumpo says
with laughter, “I killed him!”

He was starved like all of us at Manassas, and returning to
the Valley continued to have short rations. He fought through
all the great campaigns there, and wore out many pairs of shoes
in the ranks of the Foot Cavalry. At Kernstown he had just
fired his gun, and as he exclaimed “By George! I got him that
time!” received a ball which tore his coat-sleeve to pieces, and
numbed his wrist considerably. He regards himself as fortunate,
however, and says Kernstown was as hot as any fight he has
seen. Thereafter, more marching. He had been back to the
Fairfax country, where I saw him two or three times—and now
traversed the Valley again. The Romney march, he says, was
a hard one; no blankets, no rations, no fire, but a plenty of
snow. I saw him on his return at Winchester, and compared
notes. The weather was bad, but Bumpo's spirits good. He
had held on to his musket, remaining a high private in the rear
rank.

Some of these days he will tell his grandchildren, if he lives,
all about the days when he followed Commissary Banks about,
and revelled in the contents of his wagons. Altogether they

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had a jovial time, in spite of snow and hunger and weariness.

The days hurried on, and Port Republic was fought. Private
Bumpo continued to carry his musket about. He had now seen
a good deal of Virginia—knew the Valley by heart—was acquainted
with the very trees and wayside stones upon the highways.
Riding with me since, he has recalled many tender
memories of these objects. Under that tree there, he lay down
to rest in the shade on a hot July day. On that stone he sat,
overcome with weariness, one afternoon of snowy December.
There's the road we fell back on! Yonder is the hollow where
we advanced! Consequent conclusion on the part of Private
Bumpo that he has graduated in the geography of that portion
of his native State.

The lowland invited him to visit its sandy roads, after Cross
Keys. The stones of the Valley were exchanged for the swampy
soil of the Chickahominy.

On the morning of the battle of Cold Harbour, I saw a brigade
in the pine woods as I passed, and inquiring what one it
was, found it was Bumpo's. I found the brave youth in charming
spirits as ever; and surrounded by his good comrades, lying
on the pine-tags, he told me many things in brief words.

Bumpo, like his brave companions, had the air of the true
soldier—cheerful, prone to jest, and ready for the fray. He was
clad in gray, or rather brown, for the sun had scorched his good
old uniform to a dingy hue—and the bright eyes of the young
gentleman looked at you from beneath an old drab-coloured hat.
Bumpo, I think, had an irrational admiration for that hat, and, I
remember, liked his black “Yankee” haversack. I had a fine
new, shiny one which I had purchased, at only fifteen times its
original cost, from a magnanimous shop-keeper of Richmond;
and this I offered to Bumpo. But he refused it—clinging to his
plainer and better one, but slenderly stocked with crackers.

Suddenly the drum rolled. Bumpo shouldered his musket.

“Fall in!”

And the brigade was on its march again.

Poor Colonel A—! I pressed your hand that day, for “the

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first time and the last time!” Your face was kind and smiling
as you told me you would always be glad to see me at your
camp—but four hours afterwards it was cold in death. The fatal
ball had pierced your breast, and your heart's blood dyed that
hard-fought field with its crimson.

Such are the experiences of a soldier.

The battle was already raging—the brigade rapidly approached.
They arrived in time—the order passed along the
line—the corps of General Jackson went in with colours flying.

“Yesterday was the most terrific fire of musketry I ever
heard.”

Such were the words of General Jackson an hour past midnight.

On that succeeding morning, I set out to find Corporal Bumpo—
for to this rank he had been promoted. I met General Jackson
on the way, his men cheering the hero, and ascertaining from
him the whereabouts of the brigade, proceeded thither.

Corporal Bumpo smiling and hungry—a cheerful sight. He
was occupied in stocking his old haversack with biscuits—excellent
ones. They had been sent to an officer of the command,
but he was killed; and his comrades divided them. Corporal
Bumpo had charged, with his company, at sundown, near the
enemy's battery, on their extreme right. A piece of shell had
bruised him, and a ball cut a breast button of his coat in two.
The under side remained, with the name of the manufacturer
still legibly stamped thereon. Magnanimous foes! They never
interfere with “business.” That button was an “advertising
medium”—and even in the heat of battle they respected it.

Corporal Bumpo ought to have preserved that jacket as a
memorial of other days, for the honours of age. But its faded
appearance caused him to throw it away, part company with a
good old friend. What matter if it was discoloured, Bumpo?
It had sheltered you for many months. You had lain down in
it on the pine-tags of the valley and the lowlands, in the days of
July, and the nights of January; on the grass and in the snow;
with a gay heart or a sad one, beating under it. I do not recognise
you, Corporal, in this wanton act—for do not all the

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members of the family adhere to old friends? The jacket may have
been sun-embrowned, but so is the face of an old comrade.
Lastly, it was not more brown than that historic coat which the
immortal Jackson wore—whereof the buttons have been taken
off by fairy hands instead of bullets.

After Cold Harbour, Corporal Bumpo began marching again
as usual. Tramping through the Chickahominy low-grounds,
he came with his company to Malvern Hill, and was treated
once more to that symphony—an old tune now—the roar of cannon.
The swamp air had made him deadly sick—him, the
mountain born—and, he says, he could scarcely stand up, and
was about to get into an ambulance. But well men were doing
so, and the soul of Bumpo revolted from the deed. He gripped
his musket with obstinate clutch, and stayed where he was—
shooting as often as possible. We chatted about the battle when
I rode to see him, in front of the gunboats, in Charles City; and,
though “poorly,” the Corporal was gay and smiling. He had
got something to eat, and his spirits had consequently risen.

“Fall in!” came as we were talking, and Bumpo marched.

Soon thereafter, I met the Corporal in the city of Richmond,
whither he had come on leave. I was passing through the
Capitol Square, when a friendly voice hailed me, and behold!
up hastened Bumpo! He was jacketless, but gay; possessor of
a single shirt, but superior to all the weaknesses of an absurd
civilization. We went to dine with some elegant lady friends,
and I offered the Corporal a black coat. He tried it on, surveyed
himself in the glass, and, taking it off, said, with cheerful
naiveté, that he believed he would “go so.” I applauded this
soldierly decision, and I know the fair dames liked the young
soldier all the better for it. I think they regarded his military
“undress” as more becoming than the finest broadcloth. The
balls of the enemy had respected that costume, and the lovely
girls, with the brave, true hearts, seemed to think that they ought
to, too.

I linger too long in these by-ways of the Corporeal biography,
but remember that I write for the gay youth's grandchildren.
They will not listen coldly to these little familiar details.

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From Richmond the Corporal marched northward again.
This time he was destined to traverse new regions. The Rapidan
invited him, and he proceeded thither, and, as usual, got into
a battle immediately. He says the enemy pressed hard at Cedar
mountain, but when Jackson appeared in front, they broke and
fled. The Corporal followed, and marched after them through
Culpeper; through the Rappahannock too; and to Manassas.
A hard fight there; two hard fights; and then with swollen and
bleeding feet, Bumpo succumbed to fate, and sought that haven
of rest for the weary soldier—a wagon not until he had his surgeon's
certificate, however; and with this in his pocket, the Corporal
went home to rest a while.

I think this tremendous tramp from Winchester to Manassas,
by way of Richmond, caused Corporal Bumpo to reflect. His
feet were swollen, and his mind absorbed. He determined to
try the cavalry. Succeeding, with difficulty, in procuring a
transfer, he entered a company of the Cavalry Division under
Major-General Stuart, whose dashing habits suited him; and no
sooner had he done so than his habitual luck attended him. On
the second day he was in a very pretty little charge near Aldie.
The Corporal—now private again—got ahead of his companions,
captured a good horse, and supplied himself, without cost to the
Confederate States, with a light, sharp, well balanced sabre.
Chancing to be in his vicinity I can testify to the gay ardour
with which the ex-Corporal went after his old adversaries, no
longer on foot, and even faster than at the familiar “double
quick.”

His captured horse was a good one; his sabre excellent. It
has drawn blood, as the following historic anecdote will show.
The ex-Corporal was travelling through Culpeper with two
mounted servants. He and his retinue were hungry; they could
purchase no food whatever. At every house short supplies—
none to be vended—very sorry, but could not furnish dinner.
The hour for that meal passed. Supper-time came. At many
houses supper was demanded, with like unsuccess. Then the
soul of Bumpo grew enraged—hunger rendered him lawless, inexorable.
He saw a pig on the road by a large and fine looking

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house; poor people living beside the road disclaimed ownership,
and declined selling. Impressment was necessary—and Bumpo,
with a single blow of his sabre, slaughtered the unoffending
shoat. Replacing his sword with dignity in its scabbard, he
indicated the prostrate animal with military brevity of point, and
rode on, apparently in deep reflection. The retinue followed
with a pig which they had found recently killed, upon the road—
and bivouacking for the night in the next woods he reached, with
the aid of some bread in his servants' haversacks, Bumpo made
an excellent supper.

This incident he related to me with immoral exultation. It is
known in the family as the “Engagement in Culpeper.”

Bumpo was greatly pleased with the cavalry, and learned fast.
He displayed an unerring instinct for discovering fields of new
corn for horse feed; was a great hand at fence rails for the
bivouac fire; and indulged in other improper proceedings which
indicated the old soldier, and free ranger of the fields and forests.
The “fortunes of war” gave me frequent opportunities of enjoying
the society of Bumpo at this time. We rode together many
scores of miles, with Augustus Cæsar, a coloured friend, behind;
and lived the merriest life imaginable.

Worthy Lieutenant of the C. S. Artiller, do you ever recall
those sunshiny days? Don't you remember how we laughed
and jested as we rode; how we talked the long hours away so
often; and related to each other a thousand stories? How we
bivouacked by night, and halted to rest by day, making excellent
fires, and once kindling the dry leaves into a conflagration
which we thought would bring over the enemy? Have you
forgotten that pleasant little mansion in the woods, where a
blazing fire and real coffee awaited us—where I purchased
“Consuelo,” and you, “The Monk's Revenge?” You were
Bumpo “by looks” and Bumpo “by character” that day, my
friend, for you feasted as though a famine were at hand! Then
the supper at Rudishill's, and the breakfast at Siegel's old headquarters.
The march by night, and the apparition of Rednose,
emissary of Bluebaker! Those days were rather gay—in spite
of wind and snow—were they not, Lieutenant Bumpo? You

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live easier now, perhaps, but when do you see tableaux like
Rednose in your journey? Rednose, superior to the Thane of
Cawdor, inasmuch as he was “not afeared!”

The Lieutenant will have to explain the above mysterious
allusion to his grand-children. I think he will laugh as he does
so, and that a small chirping chorus will join in.

The young soldier soon left the cavalry. He went to see a
kinsman, was elected lieutenant of artillery in a battery which
he had never seen, and on report of his merits only, and returned
with his certificate of election in his pocket. The old luck
attended him. In a fortnight or so he was in the battle of
Fredericksburg, where he kept up a thundering fire upon the
enemy—roaring at them all day with the utmost glee; and now
he has gone with his battery, in command of a section, with
plenty of brave cannoneers to work the pieces, to the low
grounds of North Carolina.

Such is the career of Bumpo, a brave and kindly youth, which
the letter received yesterday made me ponder upon.

Some portions of the epistle are characteristic:

“Last night I killed a shoat which kept eating my corn; and
made our two Toms scald it and cut it up, and this morning we
had a piece of it for breakfast. We call the other Tom `Long
Tom,' and Thomas `Augustus Cæsar!' ”

Bumpo! Bumpo! at your old tricks, I see. Shoat has always
been your weakness, you know, from the period of the famous
“Engagement in Culpeper,” where you slew one of these inoffensive
animals. But here, I confess, there are extenuating circumstances.
For a shoat to eat the corn of a lieutenant of a battery,
is a crime of the deepest and darkest dye, and in this case that
swift retribution which visited the deed, was consistent with both
law and equity.

The natural historian will be interested in the announcement
that he had killed a good many robins, but none were good, “as
they live altogether on a kind of berry called gall-berry, which
makes them bitter.” “Bears, deer, coons, and opossum” there
are; but the Lieutenant has killed none.

“The weather,” he adds, “is as warm here as any day in May

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in the valley. We are on a sort of island, bounded by dense swamp
on each side, and a river before and behind, with the bridges washed
away.
We are throwing up fortifications, but I don't think we
will ever need them, as it is almost impossible for the Yankees to
find us here.

Admire the impregnable position in which Lieutenant Bumpo
with two pieces of artillery, “commanding in the field,” awaits
the approach of his old friends. Dense swamps on his flanks,
and rivers without bridges in his front and rear, across which,
unless they come with pontoons, he can blaze away at them to
advantage! That he is certain to perform that ceremony if he
can, all who know him will cheerfully testify. If he falls it will
be beside his gun, like a soldier, and “dead on the field of
honour” shall be the young Virginian's epitaph.

But I do not believe he will fall. The supreme Ruler of all
things will guard the young soldier who has so faithfully performed
his duty to the land of his birth.

“I think,” he adds in his letter before me, “if luck does not
turn against us, we shall be recognised very soon. I don't care
how soon, but I am no more tired of it than I was twelve months
ago.”

Is not that the ring of the genuine metal? The stuff out of
which the good soldier is made? He is no more tired of it than
he was a year ago, and will cheerfully fight it out to the end.
Not “tired of it” when so many are “tired of it.” When such
numbers would be willing to compromise the quarrel—to abandon
the journey through the wilderness to Canaan—and return
a-hungered to the fleshpots of Egypt!

Such, in rapid outline, is the military career of my friend. I
said in the beginning that he was a “representative man.” Is
he not? I think that he represents a great and noble race to
the life—the true-hearted youths of the South. They have
come up from every State and neighbourhood; from the banks
of the Potomac and the borders of the Gulf. They laid down
the school-book to take up the musket. They forgot that they
were young, and remembered only that their soil was invaded.

They were born in all classes of the social body. The humble

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child of toil stood beside the young heir of an ancient line, and
they lived and fared alike. One sentiment inspired them in
common, and made them brethren—love for their country and
hatred of her enemies. Their faces were beardless, but the stubborn
resolution of full manhood dwelt in every bosom. They
fought beside their elders, and no worse, often better. No hardships
made them quail. They were cheerful and high-spirited,
marching to battle with a gay and chivalric courage, which was
beautiful and inspiring to behold.

When they survived the bloody contest they laughed gaily,
like children, around the camp fire at night. When they fell
they died bravely, like true sons of the South.

I have seen them lying dead upon many battle-fields; with
bosoms torn and bloody, but faces composed and tranquil. Fate
had done her worst, and the young lives had ended; but not
vainly has this precious blood been poured out on the land.
From that sacred soil shall spring up courage, honour, love of
country, knightly faith, and truth—glory, above all, for the noble
land, whose very children fought and died for her!

So ends my outline sketch of the good companion of many
hours.

Send him back soon, O Carolina, to his motherland Virginia,
smiling, hearty, “gay and happy,” as he left her borders!

Ainsi soit-il!

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Camp Quattlebum Rifles, Army of Northern Virginia,
December 10, 1863.

When I left home, my dear boys, I promised to write to you
whenever an opportunity occurred, and give you some of my
views and opinions.

I have an opportunity to-morrow to send you this; and as the
characters of great men are valuable guides to growing boys
who are shaping their own, I will take this occasion to tell you
something about the famous Commander of the Army of Northern
Virginia, General Lee.

I will first describe his appearance; for I have always observed
that when we know how a great man looks, we take far
more interest in his sayings and doings, for we have an accurate
idea of the sort of person who is talking or acting. I remember
reading once that Cæsar, the celebrated Roman General, was
a dandy in his youth—a sort of “fine gentleman” about Rome;
and had lost all his hair, which he regretted greatl, and tried to
conceal with the laurel crown he wore. Also, that when he
conquered Gaul he was thin and pale, had frequent fainting
fits, and yet was so resolute and determined that while he was
riding on horseback, over mountains and through rivers, he
would dictate dispatches to as many as seven secretaries at a

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time, who were carried in litters at his side. I also remember
reading how the Emperor Napoleon looked, and all about his
old gray overcoat, his cocked hat, his habit of taking snuff from
his waistcoat pocket, and his dark eyes, set in the swarthy face,
and looking at you so keenly as he spoke to you. I was greatly
helped, too, in my idea of General Washington—whom General
Lee, to my thinking, greatly resembles—by finding that he was
tall, muscular, and carried his head erect, repulsing with a simple
look all meddling or impertinence, and impressing upon all
around him, by his grave and noble manner, a conviction of the
lofty elements of his soul. Knowing these facts about Cæsar,
Napoleon, and Washington, I noticed that I had a much better
understanding of their careers, and indeed seemed to see them
when they performed any celebrated action which was related
in their biographies.

General Lee is now so justly famous that, although posterity
will be sure to find out all about him, my grandchildren (if I
have any) will be glad to hear how he appeared to the eyes of
Corporal Shabrach, their grandfather, one of the humble soldiers
of his army.

I have seen the General frequently, and he once spoke to me,
so I can describe him accurately. He has passed middle age, and
his hair is of an iron gray. He wears a beard and moustache,
which are also gray, and give him a highly venerable appearance.
He has been, and still is, an unusually handsome man,
and would attract attention in a crowd from his face alone.
Exposure to sun and wind has made his complexion of a ruddy,
healthy tint, and from beneath his black felt hat a pair of eyes
look at you with a clear, honest intentness, which gives you
thorough confidence both in the ability and truthfulness of their
owner. I have always observed that you can tell the character
of a man by his eyes, and I would be willing to stake my farm
and all I am worth upon the statement that there never was a
person with such eyes as General Lee's who was not an honest
man. As to his stature, it is tall, and his body is well knit.
You would say he was strong and could bear much fatigue,
without being heavy or robust. His bearing is erect, and when

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his head bends forward, as it sometimes does, it appears to stoop
under the weight of some great scheme he is concocting. His
dress is very simple, consisting generally of an old gray coat,
dark-blue pantaloons, a riding cape of the same colour; boots
worn outside, and a black hat. Sometimes a large dark overcoat
is worn over all. He seldom carries a sword. He rides fine
horses, and is my model of an old Virginia Cavalier, who would
rather be torn to pieces by shell and canister than give up any
of his rights.

If I was asked to describe General Lee's ordinary appearance
and attitude, either in the saddle, in front of the line-of-battle, or
standing with his field-glass in his hand, reconnoitring the
enemy keenly from beneath the gray eyebrows, I should say, in
words I have met with in some book, that his attitude was one
of supreme invincible repose. Here you see a man whom no
anxieties can flurry, no reverses dismay. I have seen him thus
a dozen times, on important occasions; and that, if nothing else,
convinces me that he is, in the foundations of his character, a very
great man. No man in public affairs now, to my thinking at
least, is so fine a representative and so truthful a type of the great
Virginia race of old times.

As to his character, everybody has had an opportunity of
forming an opinion upon the subject—at least of his military
character. Some persons, I know—Captain Quattlebum for
instance, who is a man of no great brains himself, however, confidentially
speaking—say that Lee is not a great general, and
compares him to Napoleon, who, they say, won greater victories,
and followed them up to better results. Such comparisons, to
my thinking, are foolish. I am no great scholar, but I have read
enough about Napoleon's times to know that they were very
different from General Lee's. He, I mean Napoleon, was at the
head of a French army, completely disciplined, and bent on
“glory.” They wanted their general to fight on every occasion,
and win more “glory.” If he didn't go on winning “glory” he
was not the man for them. The consequence was that Napoleon,
who was quite as fond of “glory” as his men, fought battles
whenever he could get at the enemy, and as his armies were

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thoroughly disciplined, with splendid equipments, and plenty
of provisions and ammunition, he was able to follow up his successes,
as he did at Marengo and Austerlitz, and get the full
benefit of them. Lee is in a very different situation from Napoleon.
This is an army of volunteers, who did not come into the
field to gain “glory,” but to keep the Yankees from coming
further South. They have no disposition to rebel and get rid
of General Lee if he does not feed them on a dish of “glory”
every few weeks. They are not as well organized as they ought
to be, and are badly equipped, provisioned, and ammunitioned.
With such an army it is unreasonable to expect General Lee to
fight as often and as desperately as Napoleon did, or to follow
up his victories. He takes the view, I suppose, that he is Commander-in-Chief
of the Confederate States in the field; that
“glory” is a secondary matter; that worrying out the enemy is
the best tactics for us, with our smaller number and superior
material; and that no risks ought to be run with our army,
which, once destroyed by an unlucky step, could not be replaced.
Altogether, for the reasons stated above, I think General Lee is a
better soldier for the place he occupies than Napoleon would be.

I can look back to many occasions where I think a different
course from that which he pursued would have been better, but
I do not, on that account, mean to say that he was wrong. I
think he was right. My dear boys, there is no man so wise as
he who explains what ought to have been done, after the event.
It is like the progress of science. A child, in the year 1864,
knows ten thousand things that the wisest philosopher of 1764
knew nothing about. So a boy may be able to understand that
this or that would have been better, from what he now knows,
when our wisest generals, from want of information at the time,
could not. It is a solemn thing to be in command of an army
which cannot be renewed, if once destroyed; especially when
that army is the only breakwater against the torrent attempting
to sweep us away.

I have, on all occasions, expressed these opinions of General
Lee, and I intend to go on expressing them, with many others
like them, and if anybody thinks I do so from interested

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motives they are welcome to their opinion. It is not likely that
the Commander-in-Chief will ever know whether Fifth Corporal
Shabrach likes or dislikes him—whether he admires him, or the
contrary. I am glad of that. I consider myself just as good as
General Lee as long as I am honest and a good soldier, doing
my duty to the country in the upright, brave, and independent
attitude of a free Virginian; and let me tell you that the General
would be the first to acknowledge it. My dear boys, there
is nobody so simple and unassuming as a gentleman, and I tell
you again that General Lee is not only a gentleman, but a great
man, and Corporal Shabrach takes off his hat and salutes him,
whether noticed by the General or not. It is his duty to salute
him, and he performs that duty without expecting to be promoted
to Fourth Corporal for it.

I will therefore say of General Lee that, to my thinking, his
character bears the most striking and surprising resemblance to
that of General Washington. When I say this, you will know
my opinion of him, for I have always taught my boys to revere
the name of the Father of his Country. In saying this about
General Lee, I do not mean any empty compliment. It is very
easy to talk about a “second Washington” without meaning
much, but I mean what I say. I read Marshall's Life of the
General some years since, and I remember taking notice of the
fact that Washington appeared to be the tallest and strongest of
all the great men around him. I did not see that he excelled
each one of them in every particular. On the contrary, there was
Patrick Henry; he could make a better speech. There was
Jefferson; he could write a better “State paper.” And there
was Alexander Hamilton, who was a much better hand at figures,
and the hocus-pocus of currency and “finance.” (I wish we had
him now, if we could make him a States' Rights man.) But
Washington, to my thinking, was a much greater man than
Henry, or Jefferson, or Hamilton. He was wiser. In the balance
and harmony of his faculties he excelled them all, and
when it came to his moral nature they were nowhere at all!
In reading his life, I remember thinking that he was the fairest
man I ever heard of. His very soul seemed to revolt against

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injustice to the meanest creature that crawled; and he appeared
to be too proud to use the power he wielded to crush those who
had made him their enemy by their own wrong-doing. Although
he was a man of violent temper, he had it under perfect
control, and he seems to have gone through life with the view
of having carved on his tombstone: “Here lies a man who
never did intentional injustice to a human creature.” Now anybody
that knows General Lee knows that this is just like him.
For my part, I am just as sure as I can be of anything, that if
one of his Major-Generals tried to oppress the humble Fifth Corporal
Shabrach, he would put the Major-General under arrest,
and make him answer for his despotism. If you will look at
the way General Washington fought, also, you will find a great
resemblance to General Lee's tactics. The enemy had then, as
now, to be worried out—to be evaded by falling back when the
ammunition or rations gave out—to be harassed by partisans,
and defeated at one point to balance their success at another.
The account current was cast up at the end of each year, the
balance struck, and preparations made to open a new account for
the next year, and the next!

That's the way we are fighting this war, and that is General
Lee's plan, I think, as it was Washington's.

All this army has pretty much the same opinion of General
Lee that I have, and is glad that it is commanded by one whom
it both respects and loves. There is no doubt about the General's
popularity with the army, and its confidence in him. The
men call him “Uncle Robert,” and are proud of his notice. I
told you that he once spoke to your father, who is nothing but
Fifth Corporal, and you will be proud when I tell you that little
Willie's letter, the first he ever wrote me, was the cause. I was
sitting on a stump by the roadside reading it with a delight that
showed itself, I suppose, in my countenance, when, hearing
horses' hoofs near me, I raised my head and saw General Lee, in
his old riding-cape, with several members of his staff. I rose
quickly to my feet and made the military salute—two fingers to
the hat—when what was my surprise to see the General stop
with all his staff. His hand went to his hat in return for my

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salute, and looking at me with his clear eyes, he said in a grave,
friendly voice:

“I suppose that is a letter from your wife, is it not, my
friend?”

It was a proud moment for Corporal Shabrach, I assure you,
my children, to be called “my friend” by old Uncle Robert.
But somehow, he didn't make me feel as if he was condescending.
It was just as if he had said: “Shabrach, my friend, we are both
good patriots, fighting for our country, and because I am Commander-in-Chief
that is no reason why I should not respect an
honest Fifth Corporal, and take an interest in him and his domestic
matters.” His voice seemed to say all that, and thinking he
was in no hurry that morning, I replied:

“No, General; I have no wife now, although I have had two
in my time, the last one having been a great trial to me, owing
to her temper, which was a hard thing to stand.”

The General smiled at this, and said with a sort of grave
humour that made his eyes twinkle:

“Well, my friend, you appear to be too well advanced in life
to have a sweetheart, although” (I saw him look at the chevrons
on my sleeve) “all the Corporals I ever knew have been gallant.”

“It is not from a sweetheart, General,” I replied; “after Mrs.
Shabrach the Second died, I determined to remain unmarried.
My little boy, Willie, wrote it; he is only six years old, but is
anxious to grow up and be one of General Lee's soldiers.”

“That is a brave boy,” returned the General; “but I hope
the war will not last so long. You must give him my love, and
tell him to fight for his country if he is ever called upon. Good
day, my friend.”

And saluting me, the General rode on. He often stops to
speak to the soldiers in that way; and I mention this little incident,
my children, to show you how kindly he is in his temper,
and how much he loves a quiet joke, with all his grave air, and
the anxieties that must rest on him as Commander-in-Chief of
the army.

I have always despised people that looked up with a mean
worship to great men, but I see nothing wrong or unmanly

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in regarding with a sort of veneration—a mixture of affection
and respect—this noble old cavalier, who seems to have stepped
out of the past into the present, to show us what sort of men
Virginia can still produce. As for myself, I never look at him
without thinking: “It is good for you to be alive to let the
youths of 1863 see what their fathers and grandfathers were in
the great old days.” The sight of the erect form, the iron-gray
hair and beard, the honest eyes, and the stately figure, takes me
back to the days when Washington, and Randolph, and Pendleton,
used to figure on the stage, and which my father told me all
about in my youth. Long may the old hero live to lead us, and
let no base hand ever dare to sully the glories of our well
beloved General—the “noblest Roman of them all,” the pink of
chivalry and honour. May health and happiness attend him!

Your affectionate father,
Solomon Shabrach,
5th Corporal, Army Northern Virginia.

Camp Quattlebum Rifles, A. N. V.,
January 25, 1864.

When you come out of Richmond, my dear boys, you have
to get a passport. As you have never yet travelled from home,
I will explain what a passport is. It is a paper (always brown)
which is signed by somebody or his clerk, and which induces a
melancholy-looking soldier at the cars, with a musket and fixed
bayonet, to let you go back from the horrors of Richmond to
the delights of camp.

As without this brown paper (for unless the paper is brown
the passport is not good) you cannot get back home—that is to
camp, the soldier's home—there is, of course, a great crowd of
applicants always at the office where the papers are delivered. I
was recently in Richmond, having been sent there on business

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connected with the Quartermaster's Department of our regiment,
and I will describe for your instruction the passport office, and
the way you get a passport.

I thought at first I would not need one, because my orders
were approved by several high officers, and last by Major Taylor,
Adjutant-General of the army, “by command of General
Lee,” and nobody had demanded any other evidence of my right
to travel before I reached Richmond. “Uncle Robert” will not
allow his provost-marshals at Orange or Gordonsville to deny his
sign-manual, and I was under the mistaken impression that I
could enjoy the luxury of taking back a lot of shoes and blankets
to the Quattlebum Rifles, without getting a permit on brown
paper from some Major or Captain in Richmond. I accordingly
went to the cars, and on presenting my orders to the melancholy
young man with the musket and bayonet, posted there, found
his musket drop across the door. When I asked him what that
meant, he shook his head and said I had “no passport.” I
called his attention again to my orders, but he remained immovable,
muttering in a dreary sort of way, “You must get a passport.”

“Why, here are the names of a Brigadier and Major-General.”

“You must get a passport.”

“Here is Major Taylor's signature, by command of General
Lee.

“You must get a passport.”

“From whom?”

“Captain—,” I forget who, “at the passport office.”

This appeared to be such a good joke that I began to laugh,
at which the sentinel looked very much astonished, and evidently
had his doubts of my sanity. I went back and at once
looked up the “passport office.” I found that it was in a long
wooden building, on a broad street, in the upper part of the city,
and when I reached the place I found a large crowd assembled
at the door. This door was about two feet wide, and one at a
time only could enter—the way being barred by a fierce-looking
sentinel who kept his musket with fixed bayonet. I observed
that everything was “fixed bayonet” in Richmond, directly

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across the door. This ferocious individual let in one at a time,
and as each one entered the crowd behind him, which was as
tightly packed together as a parcel of herrings in a barrel,
surged forward with a sort of rush, only to be driven back by
the sentinel, who scowled at them pretty much as a farmer does
at a parcel of lazy negroes who have neglected their work and
incurred the penalty of the lash. As fast as the passports were
granted, those who got them passed out at another door; a
second sentinel, with musket and fixed bayonet also, bade defiance
to the crowd.

Well, after working my way through the mass, and remaining
jammed in it for over an hour, my turn came, and with a slow
and reluctant motion, the sentinel, who had been eyeing me for
some time with a sullen and insolent look, raised his musket and
allowed me to enter. His eye continued to be fixed on me, as
if I had come to pick some one's pocket, but I did not heed him,
my curiosity being too much excited by the scene before me.
A row of applicants were separated from a row of clerks in
black coats, by a tall railing with a sort of counter on top, and
the clerks were bullying the applicants. That is the only word
I can use to describe it. I am not mistaken about this. Here
were very respectable looking citizens, officers of the army, fine
looking private soldiers, and all were being bullied. “Why do
they bully people at the passport office?” you will probably ask,
boys. I don't know, but I have always observed that small “official”
people always treat the world at large with a sort of air of
defiance, as if “outsiders” had no right to be coming there to
demand anything of them; and the strange thing is, that everybody
submits to it as a matter of course.

Well, there were a large number of persons who wanted passports,
and only a few clerks were ready to wait on them. A
considerable number of well dressed young men who would
make excellent privates—they were so stout and well fed—sat
around the warm stove reading newspapers and chatting. I
wondered that they did not help, but was afterwards informed
that this was not “their hour,” and they had nothing to do with
the establishment until “their hour” arrived.

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At last my turn came round, and I presented my orders to a
clerk, who looked first at the paper, then at me, pretty much as
a cashier in a bank would do if he suspected that a draft presented
to him was a forgery. Then the official again studied the paper,
and said in the tone of a Lieutenant-General commanding:

“What is your name?”

“It is on my orders,” I said.

“I asked your name,” snapped the official.

“Solomon Shabrach.”

“What rank?”

“Fifth Corporal.”

“What regiment?”

“Quattlebum Rifles.”

“Hum! don't know any such regiment. What army?”

“General Lee's.”

“What did you visit Richmond for?”

“On public business.”

“I asked you what you came to Richmond for!” growled the
clerk, with the air of a man who is going to say next, “Sentinel,
arrest this man, and bear him off to the deepest dungeon
of Castle Thunder.”

“My friend,” I said mildly, for I am growing too old to have
my temper ruffled by every youngster, “the paper you hold in
your hand is my orders, endorsed by my various military superiors.
That paper will show you that I am Corporal Shabrach,
of the Quattlebum Rifles, — Virginia regiment,—'s brigade,—'
s division—'s corps, Army of Northern Virginia.
You will also see from it that I am in Richmond to take charge
of Quartermaster's stores, and return with them to camp `without
unnecessary delay.' I have obtained the stores, which are
shoes and blankets, and I want to obey my order and take them
to the company. If you are unwilling to give me the necessary
passport to do so, give me back my orders, and I will go to
General Winder, who is the commanding officer here, I believe,
and ask him if there is any objection to my returning with my
shoes and blankets to the army.”

At the name of General Winder a growl ran along the table,

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and in about a minute I had my passport handed me without
further discussion. It was a permit to go to Orange Court-house,
Corporal Shabrach binding himself on honour not to communicate
any intelligence (for publication) which, if known to
the enemy, would be prejudicial to the Confederate States; also
signing an oath on the back of the paper, by which he further
solemnly swore that he would yield true faith and allegiance to
the aforesaid Confederate States. This was on brown paper—
and I then knew that I could get out of Richmond without trouble.
The sentinel at the other door raised his musket, scowled
at me, and let me pass; and at the cars, the melancholy sentinel
there, too, did likewise. I observed that he read my pass
upside down, with deep attention; but I think he relied upon
the fact that the paper was brown, as a conclusive proof of its
genuineness.

I have thus described, my dear boys, the manner in which you
procure a passport in Richmond. Why is the public thus annoyed?
I really can't tell you. Everybody has to get one;
and even if Mrs. Shabrach (the second) was alive she would have
to sign that oath of true allegiance if she wanted to get on the
cars. I shall only add that I think the clerk who put her under
cross-examination would soon grow tired of the ceremony. Her
tongue was not a pleasant one; but she is now at rest.

I must now say good-by, my dear boys.

Your affectionate father,
Solomon Shabrach.
Fifth Corporal.

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That band in the Pines again! It is always playing, and
intruding on my reveries as I sit here in my tent, after work,
and muse. Did I say intruding? A word both discourteous
and unjust; for the music brings me pleasant thoughts and
memories. May you live a thousand years, O brave musicians,
and the unborn generations listen to your grand crescendos and
sad cadences!

That music brings back some I heard many years ago, on the
Capitol square, in Richmond. From a platform rising between
the Capitol and City-Hall this music played, and it was listened
to by youth and maiden, under the great moon, with rapture.
O summer nights! O happy hours of years long gone into the
dust! Will you never come back—never? And something
like a ghostly echo answered, “never!” That band is hushed;
the musicians have departed; the instruments are hung up in
the halls of oblivion; but still it plays in memory these good
old tunes of “Far Away in Tennessee,” “The Corn Top's Ripe,”
and “The Dear Virginia Bride.” O flitting figures in the moonlight
of old years, return! Ring, clarionet, though the drooping
foliage of the elms, and drum, roar on! The summer night
comes back, and the fairy face, like an exile's dream of home in
a foreign land.

But that band is not still; the musicians are not dead; they
live to-day, and blow away as before, for they roll the drum
and sound the bugle for the First Virginia Regiment of the

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Army of Northern Virginia. I heard them afterwards, on two
occasions, when the music was charming, and the recollection of
the scenes amid which it sounded interests me. The second time
I heard the brave musicians was at Fairfax Court-house, in
1861—or was it in 1761? A century seems to have rolled
away since then.

In 1761 the present writer must have been a youth, and
appears to remember that a fair face was beside him on that
moonlit portico at Fairfax, while the band of the First Virginia
played the “Mocking Bird,” from the camp across the mills.
The scene is clear in memory to-day, as then to the material eye:
the moonlight sleeping on the roofs of the village; the distant
woods, dimly seen on the horizon; the musing figure in the
shadow; and the music making the air magical with melody,
to die away in the balmy breeze of the summer night. To-day
the Federal forces occupy, the village, and their bands play
“Yankee Doodle,” or “The Star-Spangled Banner.” No more
does the good old band of the First Virginia play there, telling
you to listen to the “Mocking Bird,” and Colonel Wyndham's
bugles ring in place of Stuart's!

The third occasion when the performance of this band impressed
me was in August, 1861, when through the camps at
Centreville ran a rumour, blown upon the wind, which rumour
taking to itself a voice, said—

“The Prince is coming!”

All at once there appeared upon the summit of the hill, west of
Centreville, a common back, which stopped not far from where
I was standing, and around this vehicle there gathered in a few
moments quite a crowd of idlers and sightseers. Then the door
was opened; from the carriage descended three or four persons,
and these gentlemen walked out on the hill from which a view
of the battle-field of Manassas in the distance was obtained.

One of these gentlemen was Prince Jerome Bonaparte, all
knew; but which was the Prince? Half-a-dozen officers in
foreign uniform had ridden with the carriage, and one of these
officers was so splendidly clad that he seemed to be the personage
in question.

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“I suppose that is the Prince,” I said to a friend beside me.

“No, you are mistaken.”

“Which is, then?”

“Look around in the crowd, and see if you cannot tell him
from the family likeness.”

Following this suggestion, my gaze all at once was arrested
by a plainly clad person in the midst of the cortège—a farmer
apparently, for he wore a brown linen coat and common straw
hat, with nothing whatever to indicate the soldier or dignitary
in his appearance. But his dress disappeared from view and
was speedily forgotten; the face absorbed attention from the
first moment; that face was the most startling reproduction of
Napoleon's—the first Emperor's. There was no possibility of
making a mistake in this—every one who was familiar with
the portraits of Napoleon recognised the prince at a glance.
He was taller and more portly than the “Man of Destiny;” but
the family resemblance in feature and expression was absolutely
perfect. I needed no one to say “This is a Bonaparte.” The
blood of the Corsican was there for all to recognise; this was a
branch of that tree whose boughs had nearly overspread a continent.

Soon afterwards the forces then at Centreville were drawn up
for review—the infantry ranged across the valley east and west;
the artillery and cavalry disposed on the flanks of the brigades.
Thus formed in line of battle, the forces were reviewed by the
French Prince, by whose side rode Beauregard. Then the cortège
stopped; an aide left it at full gallop—soon the order which he
carried was understood by all. The First Virginia regiment was
seen in motion, and advancing; reaching the centre of the field,
it went through all the evolutions of infantry for the Prince's
inspection; and while the movements were going on, the band
of the regiment—that same old band!—played the “Mocking
Bird,” and all the well known tunes, impressing itself upon the
memory of everybody present, as an inseparable “feature” of
the occasion!

It was not Napoleon I. who reviewed the forces of Beauregard
at Centreville; but it was a human being astonishingly

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like him. And if Prince Jerome ever sees this page, and is led
to recall what he looked upon that day, I think he will remember
the band of the First Virginia, playing the “Mocking Bird”
and the “Happy Land of Dixie.”

Fairfax, Centreville, Leesburg! Seldom does the present
writer recall the first two names without remembering the third;
and here it was—at Leesburg—that a band of the enemy's made
a profound impression upon his nerves. The band in question
performed across the Potomac, and belonged to the forces under
General Banks, who had not yet encountered the terrible Stonewall
Jackson, or even met with that disastrous repulse at Ball's
Bluff. He was camped opposite Leesburg, and from the hill
which we occupied could be heard the orders of the Federal
officers at drill, together with the roar of their brass band playing
“Yankee Doodle” or “Hail Columbia.” To the patriotic heart
those airs may be inspiring, but it cannot be said with truth that
they posses a high degree of sweetness or melody. So it happened
that after listening for some weeks from the grassy slope
above “Big Spring” to this band, the present writer grew desperate,
and was filled with an unchristian desire to slay the
musicians, and so end their performances. Columbia was hailed
at morning, noon, and night; Yankee Doodle became a real personage
and walked through one's dreams—those horrible brass
instruments became a thorn in the flesh, a torture to the soul,
an inexpressible jar and discord.

So, something like joy filled the heart of this writer when the
order came to march to a point lower down the river. The column
moved; the point was reached; the tents were pitched—then
suddenly came “the unkindest cut of all.” The very same band
struck up across the river, playing “Hail Columbia” with
energy, in apparent honour of our presence opposite. When we
had moved, it had moved; when we halted, it halted—there was
the wretched invention of Satan playing away as before with
enormous ardour, and evidently rejoicing in its power over us.
The musicians played at every guard-mounting and drill; the
drums rolled at tattoo and reveillé; the bugles rang clearly
through the air of evening; and the friends of General Banks

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seemed to be having the jolliest time imaginable. That miserable
band continued to play its “patriotic airs” until everybody
grew completely accustomed to it. It was even made useful by
the sergeant of a company, I heard. He had no watch, and
economically used the tattoo and reveillé of the enemy's drums
to regulate his roll-call, and “lights out.”

I thought to speak only of the good old band of the First Virginia;
but have spoken too of its rival over the Potomac. A
word still of the band in the pine wood yonder, which plays,
and plays, with splendid and rejoiceful ardour. It is loud,
inspiring, moving, but it is not gay; and I ask myself the
question, Why? Alas! it is the ear that listens, not the music,
which makes mirthful or the reverse these animated strains.
The years bring many changes, and we—alas! we change cum
illis!
Once on a time the sound of music was like laughter;
now it seems to sigh. Does it sigh for the good companions
gone, or only for lost youth, with the flower of the pea, and the
roses that will never bloom more? O martial music, in your
cadences are many memories—and memory is not always gay
and mirthful! So, cease your long-drawn, splendid battle
anthem!—play, instead, some “passionate ballad, gallant and
gay”—or better still, and old Virginia reel, such as the soldiers of
the army used to hear before they lived in tents. Unlike the
great Luria, we long to see some “women in the camp”—or if
not in person, at least in imagination!

Has some spirit of the air flashed to the brave musicians what
I wish? Do they feel as I do? The gayest reel of all the reels
since time was born, comes dancing on the wind, and every
thought but mirth is banished. Gay reel, play on! Bright
carnival of the years that have flown, come back—come back,
with the smiling lips and the rose-red cheeks, with the braided
hair and the glimmer of mischievous eyes!

-- --

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In every army there is a Corps d'Élite which bears the heaviest
brunt of battle, and carries off the chief glories of the conflict.
In the forces of Cæsar it was the “Tenth Legion” which that
“foremost man of all this world” took personal command of,
and led into action, when the moment for the last struggle came.
In the royal troops of Louis XIV., fighting against Marlborough,
it was the Garde Français who were called upon when “do or
die” was the word, and men were needed who with hats off
would call on their enemies to deliver the first fire, and then
close in, resolved to conquer or leave their dead bodies on the
field. In the Grand Armée of Napoleon it was the Vieux
Garde
which the Emperor depended upon to retrieve the fortunes
of the most desperate conflicts, and carry forward the
Imperial Eagles to victory.

In the Army of Northern Virginia there is a corps, which,
without prejudice to their noble commander, may be said to
represent the Tenth Legion of Cæsar, the French Guard of
Louis, and the Old Guard of Napoleon. This is the Old Stonewall
Brigade of Jackson.

The Old Stonewall Brigade! What a host of thoughts, memories,
and emotions, do those simple words incite! The very mention
of the famous band is like the bugle note that sounds “to
arms!” These veterans have fought and bled and conquered
on so many battle-fields that memory grows weary almost of
recalling their achievements. Gathering around Jackson in the
old days of 1861, when Patterson confronted Johnston in the
Valley of the Shenandoah—when Stuart was a simple Colonel,

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and Ashby only a Captain—they held in check an enemy
twenty times their number, and were moulded by their great
commander into that Spartan phalaux which no Federal bayonet
could break. They were boys and old men; the heirs of
ancient names, who had lived in luxury from childhood, and the
humblest of the unlettered sons of toil; students and ploughmen,
rosy-cheeked urehins and grizzled seniors, old and young,
rich and poor; but all were comrades, trained, united, fighting
for a common end, and looking with supreme confidence to the
man in the dingy gray uniform, with the keen eyes glittering
under the yellow gray cap, who at Manassas was to win for
himself and them that immortal name of “Stonewall,” cut now
with a pen of iron on the imperishable shaft of history.

It was the Shenandoah Valley which more than all other
regions gave the corps its distinctive character and material;
that lovely land which these boys fought over so often afterwards,
charging upon many battle-fields with that fire and resolution
which come only to the hearts of men fighting within
sight of their homes. Jackson called to them; they came from
around Winchester, and Millwood, and Charlestown; from valley
and mountain; they fell into line, their leader took command,
and then commenced their long career of toil and glory; their
wonderful marches over thousands of miles; their incessant combats
against odds that seemed overpowering; their contempt
of all that makes the soldier faint-hearted, of snow and rain, and
cold and heat, and hunger and thirst, and marching that wears
down the strongest frames, making the most determined energies
yield. Many dropped by the way, but few failed Jackson.
The soul of their leader seemed to have entered every breast;
and thus in thorough rapport with that will of iron, they seemed
to have discovered the secret of achieving impossibilities. To
meet the enemy was to drive him before them, it seemed—so
obstinately did the eagles of victory continue to perch upon the
old battle flag. The men of the Old Stonewall Brigade marched
on, and fought, and triumphed, like was machines which felt no
need of rest, food, or sleep. On the advance to Romney they
marched—many of them without shoes—over roads so slippery

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with ice that men were falling and guns going off all along the
line, and at night lay down without blankets or food upon the
snow, to be up and moving again at dawn. When Shields and
Fremont were closing in on Jackson's rear, they marched in one
day from Harper's Ferry to Strasburg, nearly fifty miles. On
the advance in August, 1862, to the Second Manassas, they
passed over nearly forty miles, almost without a moment's rest;
and as Jackson rode along the line which was still moving on
“briskly and without stragglers,” no orders could prevent them
from bursting forth into tumultuous cheers at the sight of him.
He had marched them nearly to death, to reach a position where
they were to sustain the whole weight of Pope's army hurled
against them—they were weary unto death, and staggering—but
they made the forests of Fauquier resound with that electric
shout which said, “We are ready!”

Such has been the work of the Old Brigade—not their glory;
that is searcely here alluded to—but their hard, unknown toil to
carry out their chief's orders. “March!” has been the order
of their going. The very rapidity of their marches separates
them from all soldier comforts—often from their very blankets,
however cold the weather; and any other troops but these and
their Southern comrades would long since have mutinied, and
demanded bread and rest. But the shadow of disaffection never
flitted over forehead in that command. Whatever discontent
may be felt at times at the want of attention on the part of subordinate
officers to their necessities, the “long roll” has only to
be beaten—they have only to see the man in the old faded uniform
appear, and hunger, cold, fatigue, are forgotten. The Old
Brigade is ready—“Here!” is the answer to the roll-call, all
along the line: and though the eye is dull from want of food
and rest, the arm is strong and the bayonet is sharp and bright.

That leader in the faded uniform is their idol. Anecdote,
song, story—in all he is sung or celebrated. The verses professing
to have been “found upon the body of a serjeant of the
Old Stonewall Brigade at Winchester,” are known to all—the
picture they contain of the men around the camp fire—the
Shenandoah flowing near, the “burly Blue Ridge” echoing to

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their strains—and the appearance of the “Blue Light Elder”
calling on his men to pray with him:



“Strangle the fool that dares to scoff!
Attention! 'tis his way
Appealing from his native sod
In formd pauperis to God,
`Lay bare thine arm, stretch forth thy rod!
Amen!'—that's Stonewall's way.”

Here is the rough music of the singer as he proceeds with his
strain, and recalls the hard conflict of the second Manassas, when
Longstreet was at Thoroughfare, Jackson at Groveton:



“He's in the saddle now! Fall in!
Steady—the whole Brigade!
Hill's at the ford, cut off! We'll win
His way out—ball and blade.
What matter if our shoes are worn!
What matter if our feet are torn!
`Quick-step—we're with him before dawn!'
That's `Stonewall Jackson's way.'
“The sun's bright lances rout the mists
Of morning, and, by George,
There's Longstreet struggling in the lists,
Hemmed in an ugly gorge.
Pope and his Yankees whipped before—
`Bay'net and Grape!' hear Stonewall roar,
`Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score!'
That's `Stonewall Jackson's way!”'

Lastly, hear how the singer at the camp fire, in sight of the
firs of the Blue Ridge and the waters of the Shenandoah, indulges
in a wild outburst in honour of his chief:



“Ah, maiden! wait and watch and yearn
For news of Stonewall's band:
Ah, widow! read, with eyes that burn,
That ring upon thy hand!
Ah, wife! sew on, pray on, hope on:
Thy life shall not be all forlorn—
The joe had better ne'er been born
Than get in Stonewall's way!”

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These words may sound extravagant, but defeat has met the
enemy so persistently wherever Jackson has delivered battle at
the head of the Old Brigade and their brave comrades, that the
song is not so unreasonable as it may appear. And here let me
beg that those “brave comrades” of the Old Brigade will not
suppose that I am oblivious of their own glory, their undying
courage, and that fame they have won, greater than Greek or
Roman. They fought as the men I am writing of, did—with a
nerve as splendid, and a patriotism as pure and unfaltering as
ever characterized human beings. It is only that I am speaking
now of my comrades of the Shenandoah Valley, who fought
and fell beneath the good old flag, and thinking of those dear
dead ones, and the corps in which they won their deathless
names, I am led to speak of them and it only.

Of these, and the Old Brigade, I am never weary thinking,
writing, or telling: of the campaigns of the Valley; the great
flank movement on the Chickahominy; the advance upon Manassas
in the rear of Pope; the stern, hard combat on the left wing
of the army at the battle of Sharpsburg; all their toils, their
sufferings, their glories. Their path has been strewed all over
with battles; incredible have been the marches of the “Foot
Cavalry;” incessant their conflicts. Death has mowed down
whole ranks of them; the thinned line tells the story of their
losses; but the war-worn veterans still confront the enemy. The
comrades of those noble souls who have thus poured out their
hearts' blood, hold their memory sacred. They laughed with
them in the peaceful years of boyhood, by the Shenandoah, in
the fields around Millwood, in Jefferson, or amid the Alleghanies;
then they fought beside them, in Virginia, in Maryland,
wherever the flag was borne; they loved them, mourn them,
every name is written on their hearts, whether officer or private,
and is ineffaceable. Their own time may come, to-day or to-morrow;
but they feel, one and all, that if they fall they will
give their hearts' blood to a noble cause, and that if they survive,
the memory of past toils and glories will be sweet.

Those survivors may be pardoned if they tell their children,
when the war is ended, that they fought under Jackson, in the

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“Old Stonewall Brigade.” They may be pardoned even if they
boast of their exploits, their wonderful marches, their constant
and desperate combats, the skill and nerve which snatched victory
from the jaws of defeat, and, even when they were retiring
before overwhelming numbers, made it truly better that the foe
had “ne'er been born” than meet their bayonet charge.

In speaking of this veteran legion, “praise is virtue.” Their
history is blazoned all over with glory. They are “happy names,
beloved children”—the favourites of fame, if not of fortune. In
their dingy uniforms, lying stretched beneath the pines, or by
the roadside, they are the mark of many eyes which see them
not, the absorbing thought in the breast of beauty, and the idols
of the popular heart. In line before the enemy, with their bristling
bayonets, they are the life-guard of their dear old mother,
Virginia.

The heart that does not thrill at sight of the worn veterans, is
cold indeed. To him who writes, they present a spectacle noble
and heroic; and their old tattered, ball-pierced flag is the sacred
ensign of liberty.

Their history and all about them is familiar to me. I have
seen them going into action—after fighting four battles in five
days—with the regularity and well dressed front of holiday
soldiers on parade. There was no straggling, no lagging; every
man stood to his work, and advanced with the steady tramp of
the true soldier. The ranks were thin, and the faces travel-worn;
but the old flag floated in the winds of the Potomac as defiantly
as on the banks of the Shenandoah. That bullet-torn ensign
might have been written all over, on both sides, with the names
of battles, and the list have then been incomplete. Manassas,
Winchester, Kernstown, Front Royal, Port Republic, Cold Harbour,
Malvern Hill, Slaughter Mountain, Bristow Station, Grove—
Ox Hill, Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg, were to follow. And
these were but the larger names upon the roll of their glory.
The numberless engagements of minor character are omitted;
but in these I have mentioned they appear to the world, and
sufficiently vindicate their claim to the title of heroes.

I seemed to see those names upon their flag as the old brigade

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advanced that day, and my whole heart went to greet them, as
it had gone forth to meet and greet the brave youth whom I spoke
to just before the battle, by the roadside, where he lay faint and
weak but resolute and smiling.*

Whatever be the issue of the conflict, these brave spirits will
be honoured, and held dear by all who love real truth and
worth and courage. Wherever they sleep—amid the Alleghaneys,
or by the Potomac, in the fields of Maryland, or the valleys
and lowlands of Virginia—they are holy. Those I knew the best
and loved most of all, sleep now or will slumber soon beneath
the weeping willow of the Old Chapel graveyard in the Valley.
There let them rest amid tears, but laurel-crowned. They sleep,
but are not dead, for they are immortal.

eaf521n5

* The brave Lieutenant Robert Randolph. “Requiescat in pace!

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Sad but pleasing are the memories of the past! Gay and grotesque
as well as sorrowful and sombre, are the recollections of
the “old soldiers” who, in the months of 1861, marched to the
rolling drum of Beauregard!

At that time the present writer was a Sergeant of Artillery, to
which high rank he had been promoted from the position of
private: and the remembrance of those days when he was uniformly
spoken to as “Sergeant” is by no means unpleasing.
The contrary is the fact. In those “callow days” the war was a
mere frolic—the dark hours were yet unborn, when all the sky
was over-shadowed, the land full of desolation—in the radiant
sunshine of the moment it was the amusing and grotesque phase
of the situation that impressed us, not the tragic.

The post of Sergeant may not be regarded as a very lofty one,
compared with that of field or general officers, but it has its advantages
and its dignity. The Sergeant of Artillery is “Chief
of Piece”—that is to say, he commands a gun, and gun-detachment:
and from the peculiar organization of the artillery, his
rank assimilates itself to that of Captain in an infantry regiment.
He supervises his gun, his detachment, his horse picket, and is
responsible for all. He is treated by the officer in command with
due consideration and respect. A horse is supplied to him. He
is, to all intents and purposes, a commissioned officer.

But the purpose of the writer is not to compose an essay upon
military rank. From the Sergeant let us pass to the detachment

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which he commanded. They were a gay and jovial set—those
young gentlemen of the “Third Detachment”—for they were for
the most part youths of gentle nurture and liberal education,
who had volunteered at the first note of the bugle. They fought
hard to the end of the war, but in camp they were not energetic.
Guard duty and horse-grooming were abominable in their eyes;
and the only pursuits to which I ever saw them apply themselves
with activity and energy were visiting young ladies, and smoking
pipes. From this it may be understood that they were bad
material for “common soldiers,” in the European acceptation of
the term; and their “Chief” was accustomed to appeal rather to
their sense of propriety than the fear of military punishment.
The appeal was perfectly successful. When off duty, he magnanimously
permitted them to do what they chose; signed all
their passports without looking at them; and found them the
most orderly and manageable of soldiers. They obeyed his orders
when on duty, with energy and precision: were ready with
the gun at any alarm before all the rest, the commanding officer
was once pleased to say; and treated their Chief with a kindness
and consideration mingled, which he still remembers with true
pleasure.

The battery was known as the “Revolutionary Ducks.” This
sobriquet requires explanation, and that explanation is here
given. When John Brown, the celebrated Harper's Ferry
“Martyr,” made his onslaught, everything throughout Virginia
was in commotion. It was said that the “Martyr” and his band
were only the advance guard of an army coming from Ohio. At
this intelligence the battery—then being organized in Richmond
by the brave George W. Randolph, afterwards General, and Secretary
of War—rushed quickly to arms: that is, to some old
muskets in the armory, their artillery armament not having been
obtained as yet. Then commanded by the General to be, they
set out joyously for Harper's Ferry, intent on heading off the
army from Ohio. In due time they landed from the boat in
Washington, were greeted by a curious and laughing crowd,
and from the crowd was heard a voice exclaiming, “Here's your
Revolutionary Ducks!” The person who had uttered this

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severe criticism of the ununiformed and somewhat travel-worn
warriors was soon discovered to be an irreverent hackman; but
the nick-name made the youthful soldiers laugh—they accepted
it. They were thenceforth known to all their friends and acquaintances
as the “Revolutionary Ducks.”

The Revolutionnaires marched to Manassas at the end of May,
1861, and a few days after their arrival one of the South Carolinians
camped there, asked me if I had “seen the little General,”
meaning General Beauregard, who had just assumed command. The little General visited the battery, and soon dispatched it with
his advance-force under Bonham to Fairfax Court-House, where it
remained camped on a grassy slope until the middle of July,
when it came away with unseemly haste. In fact, a column of
about fifty-five thousand blue-coats were after it; and the “Third
Detachment,” with their gun, had a narrow escape. They were
posted, solus, near the village of Germantown, with the trees cut
down, four hundred and thirty yards by measurement, in front
to afford range for the fire. Here they awaited with cheerfulness
the advance of the small Federal force, until a horseman galloped
up with, “Gentlemen! the enemy are upon you,” which was
speedily followed by the appearance of blue uniforms in the wood
in front. The infantry supports were already double-quicking
to the rear. The odds of fifty-five thousand against twenty-five
was too great for the “Third;” and they accordingly limbered
to the rear, retiring with more haste than dignity. A friend had
seen the huge blue column passing from Flint Hill toward Germantown,
and had exclaimed with tragic pathos that the present
historian was “gone.” He was truly “gone” when the enemy
arrived—gone from that redoubt and destined to be hungry and
outflanked at Centreville.

The Revolutionnaires had but an insignificant part in the great
battle of Manassas. The “little General” intended them to bear
the brunt, and placed them in the centre at Mitchell's Ford. From
this position they saw the splendid spectacle of the Federal
Cavalry dividing right and left to unmask the artillery which
speedily opened hotly—but beyond this shelling they were not
assailed. Caissons blew up all around, and trees crashed down;

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but the blue infantry did not charge the breastworks. Then
Beauregard resolved to advance himself with the Revolutionnaires
and Bonham straight on Centreville, and sent the order—
but it never arrived. Thus the “Third” was cheated of the
glory which they would have won in this great movement; and
despite the shells which burst for four days in the trenches, they
are not entitled to inscribe “Manassas” on their flag.

Two days after the battle they were ordered to advance with
General Bonham to Vienna. All obeyed but the “Third,” which
being seized with a violent desire to go to Alexandria instead of
Vienna, gave the rest the slip, joined Colonel Jeb Stuart's column
of cavalry and infantry, going toward Fairfax, and never stopped
until they reached that village, wherein they had made a
number of most charming friends. They made their reëntrance
amid waving handkerchiefs from the friends alluded to, and
cheering joyously—but were speedily desired to explain their presence
in the column of Colonel Stuart, who thus found himself in
command of a surplus gun, of which he knew nothing. The present
writer at once repaired to the Colonel's headquarters, which
consisted of a red blanket spread under an oak, explained the
wishes of the “Third,” and begged permission to accompany
him to Washington. The young Colonel smiled: he was evidently
pleased. We should go, he declared—he required artillery,
and would have it. The “Chief” received this reply with extreme
satisfaction; put his gun in battery to rake the approach
from Annandale; and was just retiring to his blanket, with the
luxury of a good conscience, when an order came from General
Bonham to repair with the gun, before morning, to Vienna! The
General ranked the Colonel: more still, the gun was a part of the
General's command. With heavy hearts the “Third” set out
through the darkness for the village to which they were ordered.

As the writer is not composing a log-book of his voyages
through those early seas, he will only say that at Vienna the
Revolutionnaires saw for the first time the enemy's balloons hovering
above the woods; turned out more than once, with ardour,
when Bonham's pickets fired into Stuart's; and smoked their
pipes with an assiduity that was worthy of high commendation.

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Soon the order came to move; they hung their knapsacks with
energy upon the guns, for the horses to pull, and thus returned
to Centreville, where they were ordered to join the hard-fighting
Colonel Evans at Leesburg.

At the name of Leesburg, every heart of the “Noble Third”
still beating, will beat faster. Leesburg! Paradise of the youthfull
warrior! dear still to the heart of him who writes, and to all
his brave companions! Land of excellent edibles, and beautiful
maidens! of eggs and romance, of good dinners and lovely
faces! No sooner had the ardent cannoneers reached camp, and
pitched their tents, than they hastened into Leesburg to “spy
out the land.” The reconnoissance was eminently satisfactory.
The report brought back by the scouts thus thrown forward, represented
the place as occupied in force by an enemy of the most
attractive description—and from that time to the period of their
abrupt departure, the brave young artillerists were engaged in
continuous skirmishes with their fair faces, not seldom to their
own discomfiture.

When the “Third” with another detachment went to camp at
Big Spring, in a beautiful grove, they applied themselves to the
military duties above specified with astonishing ardor. The
number of horses which required shoeing at the blacksmith's in
town was incredible; and such was their anxiety to rush to
combat, that the young soldiers surreptitiously knocked shoes
from the horses' feet, to be “ordered to the front,” toward the
foe.

The Revolutionnaires had a little skirmish about this time with
the Federal force at White's Ferry, and the “Third” had the satisfaction
of setting a house or barn on fire with shell, and bursting
others in the midst of a blue regiment. These exploits were
performed with a loss of one man only, wounded by sharpshooters;
the “Third” having dodged the rest of the enemy's bullets
with entire success. They were highly pleased with the result
of the combat, and soon afterwards were called to new fields of
glory. This time the locality was at Loudoun Heights, opposite
Harper's Ferry; and having dragged their gun up the rugged
mountain road with great difficulty, they opened from the

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summit at the moment when the brave Ashby charged. The result
was cheering. Ashby sent word that the shells were falling
among his own troops, but directed the fire to proceed—it was
admirable: and thus encouraged, the “Third” continued at their
post until the enemy's batteries on Maryland Heights had gotten
our range, and their rifle shell began to tear the ground near by.
Concluding that the distance was too great to render a reply
necessary, the “Third” came away soon after this—but the order
to retire had been previously given, and the piece did not move
off at a faster gait than a rapid trot—it might have been a gallop.

This little affair was in October, and on our return to Leesburg
the enemy were preparing to cross and attack us. General Evans
put on the road to Edwards' Ferry all the guns, with the exception
of the “Third,” which was sent with the Eighth Virginia
regiment to repel an assault from General McCall, who was approaching
Goose Creek, on our right, with a Division, and twelve
pieces of artillery. The “Third” undertook this with alacrity,
and remained in position at the “Burnt Bridge” with ardour,
hoping that the enemy would have the temerity to approach.
He did not do so, and at mid-day General Evans sent down for
the regiment and the gun, and ordered them at “double-quick”
and “trot-march” to the vicinity of Ball's Bluff. The regiment—
the Eighth Virginia—was ordered to “drive the enemy from
those woods,” and the “Third” was directed to open fire, “when
the Eighth fell back.” Owing to the circumstance that the
Eighth never fell back, this order was not carried out, and the
Revolutionnaires in general had no part in one of the most desperate
and gallant battles of the whole war. For the second
time they were held in reserve, in a great combat, and they
chafed at it: but the enemy in Leesburg remained to be conquered,
and after the battle, they immediately commenced attending
to the deficiency of horseshoes as before.

These raids upon the territory of the foe were now made from
their camp at “Fort Evans,” on the hill. Fort Evans was on
the top of a commanding eminence. Looking northward, you
beheld the winding Potomac, and on the upland beyond, were
seen the tents of the enemy, and their watch-fires at night—their

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tattoo and reveille being heard distinctly, and affording an economical
measurement of time to their foes. East, south, and
west, was a beautiful country of field, and forest, and meadow,
and hill—and Leesburg rose with its white houses and spires, in
the midst of it, about a mile away.

Thus the Revolutionnaires had around them all the elements
of comfort. An enemy to reconnoitre through spy-glasses, across
the river, and another enemy in the town to keep up a brisk assault
upon. Many “solitary horsemen” were seen at sunset and
other hours, dotting the road which led to the borough;—and
these returned in various moods, as “the day” had been adverse
or triumphal for them. They delivered battle with astonishing
regularity, and looked after the shoeing of the artillery horses
with an efficiency which reflected the highest credit on the
corps.

In the performance of this duty the “Third” was not behind
its companions—indeed took the lead. To smoke pipes and attack
the enemy in Leesburg were the chosen occupations of the
“Third.” To dress in full costume for battle—with white collar,
and dress uniform—seemed indeed the chief happiness of
these ardent young warriors: and then they lost no time in advancing
upon the foe. When circumstances compelled them to
remain inactive at Fort Evans for a day or days, they grew melancholy
and depressed. Their pipes still sent up white clouds of
smoke—but the ashes were strewed upon their heads.

“Fort Evans” was not an inspiring locality. The view was
superb; but the wind always blowing there, nearly removed the
hair from the head, and the mud was of incredible depth and
tenacity. In addition to this, Fort Evans got all the rain and
snow. But these were provided against. A distinguished trait
of the Revolutionnaires was a strong propensity for making themselves
comfortable; and they soon discovered that, in winter at
least, tents were vanity and vexation of body. From the realization
of the want, there was only a step to the resolution to
supply it. They cut down trees, and hauled the logs; tore
down deserted houses, and brought away the plank; carried off
old stoves, and war-worn tables, and then set to work. A log

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hut rose suddenly—the abode of the “Brigand of the Cliff,”
who was a most excellent companion and uncommonly jovial
for a bandit—many plank cabins were grouped near it, stoves
were set up, log chimneys built, and the bold Revolutionnaires
were in winter quarters.

Fort Evans was in process of construction anew, under the
supervision of General D. H. Hill—and the workmen were encouraged
by the presence and approval of the “Third” and
their companions. They rarely failed to visit it several times a
day; and generously instructed General Hill's engineer how to
lay it out without charge. They did not mind the deep mud,
and perseveringly remained for hours, looking on while the infantry
“detail” worked. Personne, one of the “Third,” superintended
the filling and revetting—and it was whispered around
that the General had assured him that “This work would remain
to speak of him.” At this the worthy Personne is said to have
smiled as only he could smile. He no doubt does so still.

In these virtuous and useful occupations—mingled with much
smoking, and close attention to horsehoes—the hours and days
sped away, there near Leesburg, in the fall and winter of the
good year 1861. Posted on the far Potomac there, to guard the
frontier, the “Third” and their companions had a large amount
of time upon their hands which it was necessary to dispose of.
Sometimes the enemy opposite amused them—as when they ran
a gun down to the river, and in a spirit of careless enjoyment,
knocked a hole with a round shot in the gable end of the abode
of the “Brigand of the Cliff.” But these lively moments were
the exception. The days generally passed by without incident;
and when debarred from visiting Leesburg, the Revolutionnaires
visited each other.

Among gentlemen so well-bred as themselves there was no
neglect of the amenities of life. You never entered a cabin, but
the owner rose and offered you the best seat. You never got
up to depart, but you were feelingly interrogated as to the occasion
of your “hurry,” and exhorted to remain. If boxes came
from home, their contents were magnanimously distributed;
when anybody got leave of absence, which was exceedingly

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seldom, his return was greeted with acclamations—perhaps because
the transaction was a good precedent. Lounging was the
habitual amusement, except when they aroused themselves to
contend with the enemy—at Leesburg. The town was their
favourite arena for combat. They delighted to visit, and early
established a dining acquaintance there—selecting those houses
where, between the courses, they could gaze into fair eyes, and
“tempt their fate.” When they returned after these expeditions
in search of horseshoes, they revelled in descriptions of ham
and turkey and dessert—making ration-beef tougher, and camp
flat-cake more like lead than ever. On the main street of Leesburg,
near Pickett's tavern, the “Third” especially congregated.
They wore the snowiest shirt bosoms, the bluest gray jackets,
and the reddest cuffs imaginable. Thus armed to the teeth, and
clad for war and conquest, they would separate in search of
young ladies, and return at evening with the most glowing accounts
of their adventures.

A glance at the headquarters of the “Third,” and a brief
notice of one of those worthies, may prove of interest to the descendants
of these doughty Revolutionnaires.

They dwelt in three or four cabins of considerable size, constructed
of plank—the middle and largest one being the headquarters
of their commander. These cabins were warmed by
old stoves, obtained on the Rob Roy principle from deserted
houses; and were fitted up with berths, popularly known as
“bunks,” filled with straw. The space above the cornice afforded
an excellent shelf for clothes, which were then economically
washed whenever it rained—but the great feature of the headquarter
mansion was the crevice at the summit of the roof.
This permitted the smoke to escape without difficulty, and on
windy nights when others were suffering, ventilated the apartment
superbly. Nor did the advantages stop there. The crevice
was no mere crack, but an honest opening; and when a

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snow-storm came on, the snow entered without difficulty, driving
downward, and enveloping the sleepers in its close white mantle.
As the warmth which snow communicates to a sleeper is well
known, this circumstance will be duly appreciated.

From the headquarters let us pass to the inhabitants. The
“Third,” as I have said, were a gay and social set, and possessed
of many peculiarities, which their “Chief,” sitting apart with a
borrowed volume (from Leesburg) in his hand, was accustomed
to watch with a covert smile. A marked feature of the young
warriors was their devotion to the habit of eating. Rations
were ample and excellent then, but they did not satisfy the
youths. They foraged persistently: brought back eggs, butter,
pies, every delicacy; and these they as persistently consumed.
They always ate butter all day long, toasting slices of bread
upon the roaring stove with a perseverance that was truly admirable.
The announcement of dinner by the polite mulatto
who officiated as cook, was uniformly received with rapture;
and the appearance of a “box from home” supplied the fortunate
possessor with the largest and most affectionate circle of
visiting friends.

Among the “characters” of the detachment, Corporal Personne,
my gunner—he who superintended the construction of
the breastworks—occupied a prominent place. He was tall and
gaunt, with a portentous moustache; had the imposing air of a
Field-Marshal on parade, and a fund of odd humour that was
inexhaustible. To hear Personne laugh was to experience an
irresistible desire to do likewise; to listen while he talked was
better than to attend a theatrical performance. Personne rarely
relaxed into that commonplace deportment which characterizes
the great mass of dull humanity. He could not have been dull
even if he had tried, and his very melancholy was humorous.
In his tone of voice and hearing he was sui generis—“whole in
himself and due to none.” All his utterances were solemn and
impressive; his air deeply serious—when he laughed he seemed
to do so under protest. He generally went away after laughing;
no doubt to mourn over his levity in private. One of
Personne's peculiarities was a very great fondness for cant

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phrases, and odd turns of expression. These afforded him undisguised
delight, and he handled them with the air of a master.
He was never known to ask for smoking tobacco in any other
words than, “Produce the damned invention!” which he uttered
with a truly terrific scowl, and an accent of wrath which was
calculated to strike terrour to the stoutest heart. A form of
logic in which he evidently reposed the fullest faith was, “An
ought's an ought—a figure's a figure—therefore you owe me a
dollar and a half;” and another mysterious phrase, “Speak to
me, Gimlet,” was a fund of unending emjoyment to him. His
comparison of distance was, “As far as a blue-winged pigeon
can fly in six months;” his measure of cold was, “Cold enough
to freeze the brass ears on a tin monkey;” his favourite oath,
“Now, by the gods who dwell on high Olympus!” and his
desire for a furlough was uniformly urged upon the ground that
he wished to “go home and see his first wife's relations.”

Personne was thus the victim of a depraved taste for slang,
but he was a scholar and a gentleman—a travelled man and a
very elegant writer. When the war broke out he was residing
in New York; but at the call of Virginia, his native State, he
had left all the delights of Broadway and the opera; abandoned
bright waiscoats, gay neckties, and fine boots, to put on the
regulation gray, and go campaigning with the Revolutionnaires.
The contrast was great, but Personne did not grumble; he
adapted himself to his new sphere with the air of a philospher.
It was only at long intervals that he spoke of his travels—only
occasionally that he broke forth with some opera air heard at the
Academy of Music, and now hummed with great taste and delicacy.
He supplied the stage action to these musical airs, but
his powers in that department were defective. The performance,
it is sufficient to say, would have done honour to a—windmill.

To witness Personne in the character of “Sergeant of the
Guard” was a superb spectacle. The stern and resolute air
with which he marshalled his guard; the hoarse and solemn
tones in which he called the roll; the fierce determination with
which he took command, and marched them to their post, was

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enough to “tickle the ribs of death.” Once having posted them,
Personne returned as solemnly to his quarters, from which soon
afterwards would be heard his low guttural laugh. The great
tableau, however, was Personne in Leesburg, mounted. He
was a study at such moments, and attracted general attention.
He sat sternly erect upon his horse, never indulged in a smile
even, and had the air of a Field-Marshal at the head of an army.
It was only when he entered the presence of the ladies that his
brows unbent, his features relaxed. With these he was a very
great favourite, and he cultivated their regard in a manner
which exhibited a profound knowledge of human nature. A
proof of this assertion is here given. One day Personne, with a
friend of his, went forth on a foraging expedition, rations running
low, and appetite rising. But the neighbourhood had
been ransacked by a whole brigade, and by what device could
they operate uon the female heart? Personne found the device
he wished, and proceeded to execute it, having first drilled his
friend in the part assigned him. Before them was a modest
mansion; through the window were seen the faces of young
ladies; the friends entered the yard, bowed politely, and lay
down upon the grass. Then the following dialogue took place
in the hearing of the ladies:

Personne, carelessly.—“A charming day, my friend; hum—
what were you saying?”

Friend, with deference.—“I was saying, Mr. Personne, that the
remarkable feature in the present war is the rank and character
of the men who have embarked in it—on the Southern side—as
privates. Take yourself, for instance. You belong to one of the
first families of Mississippi; you have three or four plantations:
you are worth very nearly half a million of dollars—and here
you are, serving in the ranks as a private soldier.”

Personne, with an air of careless grandeur.—“No matter! no
matter! The cause is everything. My estates must take care
of themselves for the present, and I expect to live hard and fight
hard, and starve—as we are doing to-day, my friend. When
the war is over, things will be different. I intend to enjoy myself,
to live in luxury—above all, to marry some charming

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creature—and I am now looking out for one to suit me. I do
not ask riches, my friend; a plain country girl would please
me best—one who is warm-hearted and kind to the soldier!”

A few moments afterwards a smiling face appeared at the
door; a pair of female lips said, “Walk in, gentlemen;” and
starting from a deep reverie into which he had fallen, Personne
rose, bowed, and accepted the invitation, bowing low again
as he entered, with his lofty air of Field-Marshal. Is it necessary
to continue the narrative, to say that Personne and his friend
nearly produced a famine, and when they retired had their
haversacks filled with every delicacy? It was only when well
beyond earshot that he laughed his low laugh, and exclaimed
with solemn earnestness, “Now by the gods that dwell on high
Olympus!—we are in luck to-day!”

Such was Personne, the pride of the “Third,” the object of
the admiring affection and regard of all the Revolutionnaires!
The writer designed drawing more than one additional portrait of
odd characters in his old detachment, but the figure of Personne
has pushed all others from the canvas—the brush moves in the
air. That canvas, it may be, perchance, is already too extensive;
not every one will find in these familiar recollections of the
“Third” that interest which the writer does; and terrible is the
crime of producing yawns! Do you think you never wearied
anybody, my dear reader, with your recollections? Do you fancy
that your past amuses others as it amuses you? But, for fear this
mass of logic will rebound upon the head of him who sets it
in motion, the “Annals of the Third” are here concluded.

As he closes up those Annals, and sets forward on his way,
the writer waves his hat in friendly farewell, salutes each one,
and calls out, “Good-by, Personne!—good-by, warriors of the
`Noble Third!'—all health and happiness attend you in the
coming years!—and never call your old commander anything
but `Sergeant!' ”

-- --

p521-427

Scene.Banks of the Rappahannock, in the winter of 1862-3; a
camp fire blazing under an oak, and Captain Blunderbus conversing
with a Staff Officer on inspection duty—the picket stationed
near, and opposite the enemy.

[figure description] Page 402.[end figure description]

Blunderbus loquitur.—“This is pleasant—picketing always
is. Uncommonly dark, however—the night black but comely,
and that frosty moon yonder trying to shine, and dance on the
ripples of the river! Don't you think it would look better if
you saw it from the porch at home, with Mary or Fanny by
your side?

“Picturesque, but not warm. Pile on the rails, my boy; never
mind the expense. The Confederacy pays—or don't pay—for
all the fences; and nothing warms the feet, expands the soul,
and makes the spirits cheerful like a good rail-fire. I was reading
in an old paper, the other day, some poetry-writing which they
said was found on the body of one of Stonewall's sergeants at
Winchester—a song he called `Jackson's Way.' He tells his
comrades to `pile on the rails,' and says,


“ `No matter if the canteen fails,
We'll make a roaring light!'
Sensible—and speaking of canteens, is there anything in yours,
my boy? Nothing. Such is fate!

“I was born unlucky, and always will be so. Now a drop of
brandy would not have been bad to-night; or say a mouthful

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[figure description] Page 403.[end figure description]

of whiskey, or a little apple or peach-brandy, gin, madeira,
sherry, claret, or even bottled porter, crab-cider or champagne!
Any of these would have communicated a charm to existence,
which—wanting them—it lacks.

“But let us be content with what we have, and accept all fortunes
as they come! If ever you hear people say that Blunderbus
is a mere trooper, old fellow—that he cares for nothing but
eating and drinking, and sleeping—just tell 'em you heard him
express that fine sentiment, and they will think better of him.
You see I'm a philosopher, like yourself, and I don't let trifles
get the better of me. The soul superior to misfortune is a noble
spectacle, and warms the heart of the beholder like generous
wine. I wish I had some.

“I think, however, I prefer this water. Now that I observe it,
it is excellent—with a body to it, a flavour, a sweetness, and
stimulating effect which I never noticed before. And then our
fire! Just look at it! You're an old hand at rails, I'll be willing
to bet—for you fix 'em on the fire with the art of a master.
What a glorious sight to see! How it warms the soul!

“I observe that the Yankee pickets over yonder have a miserable
fire—made of green wood, doubtless, and smouldering. I
was looking at them just now through my glass, and I am glad
to say one of the blue-coats was slapping his arms violently
against his breast to keep up the circulation. Pleasant; for if
anything can increase the comfort of a fire like this, it is the
consciousness that our friends over the way are shivering by
one that won't burn.

“I believe I will smoke. Nothing assists intellectual conversation
like a pipe. Help yourself. You will find that pouch—
Yankee plunder from Manassas last August—full of the real
article, and the best you ever smoked. It is real, pure Lynchburg—
brown, free from stems, and perfumed with the native
aroma of the weed. Smoke, guest of mine! That brand is
warranted to drive off all blue-devils—to wrap the soul in Elysian
dreams of real Java coffee, English boots, French wines, and no
blockade. There are men, I am told, who don't smoke. I pity'
em! How do they sustain existence, or talk or think? All

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[figure description] Page 404.[end figure description]

real philosophers use the magical weed; and I always thought
Raleigh, when I used to read about him, the most sensible man
of his time, because he smoked. I have no doubt Shakespeare
carried a pipe about, and wrote his plays with it in his mouth.

“I'll trouble you to hand me that chunk when you are done
with it. Thank you. Now the summit glows; the mysterious
depths are illumined. All right; I am lit.

“This is soothing; all care departs when you smoke a good
pipe. Existence assumes a smiling and bright aspect; all things
are rose-coloured. I find my spirits rising, my sympathies expanding,
even until they embrace the whole Yankee nation.
This is an excellent root I am leaning my back against—I never
knew a rocking-chair more agreeable. Our fire is magnificent;
and observe the picturesque effect of the enemy's blaze reflected
in the stream!

“The enemy! Who knows if that is fair? Perhaps that
good fellow over there, who was slapping his arms, I am sorry
to say, just now, by way of restoring the circulation and keeping
himself warm, came here to fight us against his will! Honest
fellows! who blames them? They are unfortunate, and I sympathize
with them. I observe that the fire over yonder, which
our friends have kindled, burns feebly, and doubtless is fed with
green wood. We could spare them a few rails, eh? But then
to communicate with them is against orders.

“I believe they come down here from pure curiosity, and
rather like to be taken prisoner. But it takes a good deal to
feed them. We want all our provisions. Often I have been
nearly starved, and I assure you starving is a disagreeable process.
I have tried it several times, and I can tell you where I
first experienced the sensation in full force. At Manassas, in
July, 1861.

“I was in the artillery then, and had command of a gun,
which gun was attached to a battery, which battery was a part
of General Bonham's brigade. Now General Bonham commanded
the advance force of Beauregard's army, and was stationed
at the village of Fairfax. Well, we had a gay time at
Fairfax in those early months of the war, playing at soldiering,

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and laughing at the enemy for not advancing. The red cuffs of
the artillery, the yellow of the cavalry, and the blue of the infantry,
were all popular in the eyes of the village beauties, and
rarely did anything of a melancholy character interfere with our
pleasures. Sometimes a cavalry-man would be shot on picket—
as we may be to-night, old fellow; and I remember once a
noble boy of the `Black Horse,' or Radford's regiment, was
brought back dead, wrapped in an oil-cloth which his sister had
taken from her piano and given him to sleep on. Poor thing!
she must have cried when she heard of that; but there has been
a good deal of crying during the present war.

“Kick that rail-end up. It makes me melancholy to see a fire
dying down. Well, we had a pleasant time in the small village
of Fairfax, until one July day my gun was ordered to a breastwork
not far off, and I heard that the `Grand Army' was
coming. Now I was thinking about the Commissary department
when I heard this news, for we had had nothing to cat for
a day nearly; but I went to work, finishing the embrasure for
my piece. Bags marked `The Confederate States' were filled
with sand and piled up skilfully; trees obstructing the range
were chopped down rapidly; and then, stepping off the ground
from the earthwork to the woods from which the enemy would
issue, I had the pleasure of perceiving that the foe would be
compelled to pass over at least four hundred and thirty yards
before reaching me with the bayonet. Now in four hundred
and thirty yards you can fire, before an enemy gets up to you,
about one round of solid shot, and two rounds of canister—say
three of canister. I depended, therefore, upon three rounds of
canister to drive back the Grand Army, and undertook it with
alacrity. I continued hungry, however, and grew hungrier as
night fell, on the 16th July.

“At daylight I was waked by guns in front, and found myself
hungrier than ever. At sunrise a gentleman on a white
horse passed by at a gallop, with the cheerful words: `Gentlemen,
the enemy are upon you!' and the cannoneers were ranged
at the gun, with the infantry support disposed upon the flanks.
All was ready, the piece loaded, the lanyard-hook passed

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[figure description] Page 406.[end figure description]

through the ring of the primer, and the sharpshooters of the
enemy had appeared on the edge of the woods, when they sent
us an order to retire. We accordingly retired, and continued to
retire until we reached Centreville, halting on the hill there.
We were posted in battery there, and lay down—very hungry.
A cracker I had borrowed did not allay hunger; and had a
dozen Yankees been drawn up between me and a hot supper, I
should have charged them with the spirit of Winkelreid, when
he swept the Austrian spears in his embrace, and `made a gap
for liberty.'

“We did not fight there, however; we were only carrying out
General Beauregard's plan for drawing on the enemy to Bull
Run, where he was ready for them. At midnight we limbered
up, the infantry and cavalry began to move, blue and red signal
rockets were thrown up, and the little army slowly retired before
the enemy, reaching the southern bank of Bull Run at daylight.
The Federals were close upon our heels, and about ten o'clock
commenced the first fight there, the `battle of the 18th.'

“Now when I arrived at Bull Run, I was hungry enough to
eat a wolf. I lay down on the wet ground, and thought of various
appetizing bills of fare. Visions of roast beef, coffee, juleps,
and other Elysian things rose before my starving eyes; and the
first guns of the enemy, crashing their round shot through the
trees overhead, scarcely attracted my attention. I grew hungrier
and hungrier—things had grown to a desperate pitch, when—beautiful
even in the eyes of memory!—an African appeared from our
wagons in the rear with hot coffee, and broiled bacon, and flat-cake,
yet hot from the oven! At the same moment a friend, who had
stolen off to the wagons, made an imperceptible gesture, and indicating
his tin canteen, gave me an inquiring look. In the service
this pantomime always expresses a willingness to drink your
health and pass the bottle. I so understood it—and retiring from
the crowd, swallowed a mouthful of the liquid. It was excellent
whiskey, and my faintness from hunger and exhaustion made
the effect magical. New life and strength filled my frame—and
turning round, I was saluted by an excellent breakfast held out
to me by the venerable old African cook!

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[figure description] Page 407.[end figure description]

“Ye gods! how that breakfast tasted! The animal from
which that ham was cut must surely have been fattened on ambrosia;
and the hot, black coffee was a tin cup full of nectar in
disguise! When I had finished that meal I was a man again.
I had been in a dangerous mood before—my patriotism had
cooled, my convictions were shaken. I had doubted of the Republic,
and thought the Confederacy in the wrong, perhaps. But
now all was changed. From that moment I was a true Southerner
again, and my opinions had the genuine ring of the true
Southern metal. I went into the battle with a joyous soul—
burning with love of my native land, and resolved to conquer or
die!

“I wish I could get at that bill of fare to-night. Hunger sours
the temper—men grow unamiable under it. Hand me that carbine—
it is not more than four hundred yards to the picket
across yonder, and I'll bet you I can put a bullet through that
bluebird nodding over the fire. Against orders, do you say?
Well, so it is; but my fingers are itching to get at that carbine.

“I'll trouble you to stick my pipe in the hot ashes by you, my
friend. I am fixed here so comfortably with my back against
this tree, that I hate the idea of getting up. You see I get lazy
when I begin to smoke, old fellow; and I think about so many
things, that I don't like to break my reflections by moving. I
have seen a good deal in this war, and I wish I was a writer to
set it down on paper. You see if I don't, I am certain to forget
everything, unless I live to eighty—and then when the youngsters,
grandchildren, and all that (if I have any, which I doubt),
gather around me, with mouths open, I will be certain to make
myself out a tremendous warrior, which will be a lie; for Blunderbus
is only an old Captain of Cavalry, good at few things but
picketing. Besides, all the real colours of the war would be lost,
things would be twisted and ruined; if I could set 'em down now
in a book, the world would know exactly how the truth was.
Oh, that Blunderbus was an author!

“I have my doubts about the figure we will cut when the
black-coats, who don't see the war, commence writing about us
Just think what a mess they will make, old fellow! They will

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[figure description] Page 408.[end figure description]

be worse than Yankee Cavalry slashing right and left—much
ink will be shed, but will the thing be history? I doubt it.
You see, the books will be too elegant and dignified; war is a
rough, bloody trade, but they will gild it over like a lookingglass
frame. I shouldn't wonder if they made me, Blunderbus,
the old bear, a perfect `carpet knight'—all airs, and graces,
and attractions. If they do, they will write a tremendous lie, old
fellow! The way to paint me is rough, dirty, bearded, and hungry,
and always growling at the Yankees. Especially hungry—
the fact is, I am really wolfish to-night; and I see that blue rascal
over yonder gnawing his ratious and raising a black bottle to
his lips! Wretch!—the thing is intolerable; give me the carbine—
I'll stop him!—cursed order that keeps me from stopping
his amusement—the villain! Who can keep his temper under
trials like this, Sergeant?”

Sergeant of pickets advancing.—“Here, Captain.”

Blunderbus, scowling.—“Are all the men present? Call the
roll—if any are missing—”

(The Sergeant calls the roll and returns to the fire.)

Sergeant.—“All present but Tim Tickler, Captain.”

Blunderbus, enraged.—“Where is Tickler—the wretched
Tickler?”

Tickler, hastening up.—“Here, Captain—present, Captain.”

Blunderbus, wrathful.—“So you are absent at roll-call! So
you shirk your duty on picket! Sergeant, put this man to-morrow
in a barrel shirt; on the next offence, buck him!
What are you standing there for, villain?”

Tickler, producing a canteen.—“I don't bear malice, I don't,
Captain. I just went to the house yonder, thinking the night
was cold—for a few minutes only, Captain, being just relieved
from post—to get a little bit to eat, and a drop of drink. Prime
applejack, Captain; taste it, barrel shirt or no.”

(Tickler extends the canteen, which Blunderbus takes, offers his
friend, and drinks from.
)

Tickler, offering ham and bread.—“And here's a little prog,
Captain.”

Blunderbus, calling to the Sergeant, who retires with Tickler.—

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“Remit Private Tickler's punishment, Sergeant; under the circumstances
he is excusable.”

Staff Officer.—“Ha, ha!”

Blunderbus, smiling.—“You may laugh, my friend; but
applejack like that is no laughing matter. What expands the
soul like meat, bread, and drink? Do you think me capable of
punishing that honest fellow? Never! My feelings are too
amiable. I could hug the whole world at the present moment,
even the Yanks yonder. Poor fellows! I fear their fire is
dying down, and they will freeze; suppose we call across and
invite them to come and warm by our fire? They are not such
bad fellows after all, my dear friend; and Blunderbus will answer
for their peaceful propensities. Nothing could tempt them
to fire upon us—they are enemies alone from the force of circumstances!

(A stick rolls from the fire, and the carbine lying near is discharged.
The enemy start to arms, and a shower of bullets whistles
round, one from a long-range Spencer rifle striking Blunderbus on
the buckle of his sword belt, and knocking him literally heels over
head.
)

Blunderbus, rising in a tremendous rage.—“Attention! fire
on 'em! Exterminate 'em! Give it to the rascals hot and
heavy, boys! Go it! Fire! (Bang! bang! bang! bang!)
Pour it into 'em! Another round! That's the thing! I saw
one fall! Hoop! give 'em another, boys! Hand me a carbine!”

Staff Officer, from his post behind the oak.—“Ha! ha! You
are a philosopher, my dear Blunderbus, and a real peace missionary—
but the `force of circumstances' alters cases, eh?”

Blunderrus, sardonically.—“I rather think it does.”

(Staff Officer mounts, and continues his rounds, the fire having
ceased, leaving Blunderbus swearing and rubbing the spot where he
was struck.
)

Staff Officer, moving on.—“Good-night!”

Blunderbus, in the distance.—“Good-night! Curse 'em.”

-- --

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[figure description] Page 410.[end figure description]

Captain Darrell comes to see me sometimes; and as we are old
companions in arms, we have a good many things to talk about.

The Captain is a pleasant associate; mild in his manners, and
apparently much too amiable to hurt a fly. He is a terrible man
after the enemy, however, and exhibits in partisan warfare the
faculties of a great genius. His caution, his skill, his “combinations,”
are masterly;—his élan in a charge or a skirmish is
superb. Then only is the worthy Captain in his native element,
and he rises to the height of the occasion without effort or difficulty.

I am going to give some of his experiences in the service—to
record some of his scouts and performances. Every hero should
have his portrait first drawn, however;—here is the Captain's:

He is not yet thirty, and is of medium height and thickness.
His frame is strongly knit, and his arm muscular. His countenance
is a pleasant one; his expression mild; black hair, black
moustache, black eyebrows, black eyes. He wears a dark surtout,
cavalry boots, and a hat with a black feather. Around his
waist he carries habitually a pistol belt with a revolver in it. In
the field he adds a carbine or short rifle, and a sabre. His pistol
and sabre were once the enemy's property—they are the spoil
of his bow and spear.

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[figure description] Page 411.[end figure description]

I am going to let the Captain speak for himself. He is not
given to talk about his experiences without provocation, and the
reader must carefully guard against the injustice of supposing
him a trumpeter of his own performances. He is wholly ignorant
of the fact that I am writing about him; and all that I shall
record was drawn from him by adroit prompting and questions.
Averse to talk at first, and to make himself the centre of attention
among my visitors, he soon grew animated, and his ordinary
somewhat listless demeanor was replaced by ardour and enthusiasm.

I had asked how many of the enemy he had killed in his career.

“I don't know,” he replied; “I never counted them—a good
many.”

“A dozen?”

“Oh, yes. I can remember six officers. I never counted the
men.”

“Where did you kill your first officer?”

The Captain reflected—musing.

“Let me see,” he said; “yes, at Upton's Hill, just by Upton's
house.”

“Tell me all about it?”

The Captain smiled, and yawned.

“Well,” he said, “it was in the fall of '61, I think, or it might
have been late summer.”

And leaning back, clasping his hands around his knees, he
thus commenced. I give the narrative, as I design giving others,
as nearly as possible in the words of the Captain:

“It was in the fall of that year, I think, when General Stuart
was below Fairfax, and the enemy occupied Munson's, Upton's,
Hall's, and Mason's Hills. Our troops were at Falls Church,
about two miles from Upton's Hill, and the enemy had pickets all
along in front. I was then scouting around on my own responsibility,
and used to go from one place to another, and get a shot
at them whenever I could. The First South Carolina boys had
often told me that I would get killed or wounded, and be taken
and hung as a bushwhacker or spy; but I was not afraid, as I
had determined never to be taken alive.

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[figure description] Page 412.[end figure description]

“At the time I speak of, we used to send three or four companies
down to Falls Church on picket, to stay some days, and
then they would be relieved by other companies. As I knew the
whole country--every road and picket-post—the officers used to
come to me and get me to go with them, and show them the
neighbourhood. General Longstreet, whose brigade was then in
front, gave me a letter, which was my credential, and I posted all
the pickets at the right places regularly.

“One day it occurred to me that I could take and hold
Upton's Hill, if I had the right sort of men; and I offered, if
they would give me a detail, to attempt it. Major Skinner, of
the First Virginia, was officer of the day, and he agreed; and
Captain Simpson, of the Seventeenth Virginia, offered me as
many men as I required. I though I would only take a small
scouting party first, however, and I picked out four men whom
I knew. My intention was to creep up, make a sudden rush on
the picket on Upton's Hill, and capture it, and hold the hill
until the enemy advanced; if I was not reinforced I would retire
again. Well, I got the men, all good fellows for that sort of
work, and we set out about nine o'clock at night on our expedition.
The night was very dark, and you could not see the road
before you; but I knew every foot of the ground, and had no
difficulty on that score. We stopped at a house on the way,
where we found two negroes; but they could give me no information,
and I pushed on in silence toward Upton's house, where
the Yankee picket was always stationed.

“Just in front of the house there is a tree, you may have
noticed, which we could see easily from Taylor's Hill, where our
picket was—about eight hundred yards off—and the men used
to fire at each other, though I never did, as it was too far. Now
I knew that if the enemy occupied the hill that night, their
picket would be at this tree; and I accordingly made a circuit
and crept up toward it, to reconnoitre, leaving the men a short
distance behind. I got near the tree, which I could see indistinctly,
but observed nothing in the shape of a picket. To find
if any was really there, I picked up a stone to throw at a fence;
for I knew if there were any Yankees there, that as soon as they

-- 413 --

[figure description] Page 413.[end figure description]

heard it strike, they would jump up and exclaim, `Hello!
didn't you hear something, Tom, or Dick! What was that?'
They would naturally be startled, and would in some manner
betray their presence.

“Well, I threw the stone, and it struck the fence, bouncing
off and making a tremendous noise. There was no reply; the
silence remained entirely unbroken, and I was satisfied that there
was no picket at that particular spot, at least. I therefore
advanced boldly, and reached the tree, making a signal to the
men to come up. The enemy had evidently been at the spot
only a short time before. There were the remains of a picket
fire, and a quantity of green corn lying about, taken from the
field before the house, which was about two hundred yards off,
and on the tree was hanging a canteen. I took it and put it
on, and then cautiously approached the house, supposing that
the Yankee pickets had gone in to sleep. Upton was then in
the Yankee Congress, and his house was vacant, and I supposed
the enemy used it as a place of shelter.

“I walked noiselessly around the house, but could see no sign
of any one. I thought I would try the same game as before,
and found a stone, which I threw against the side of the house.
Bang! it went, but no one replied; and I was then pretty sure
that I had everything in my own hands. We knocked at the
door, and a sleepy voice said something—probably a negro's—
but we could not get in, though we tried to prise the door
open.

“I had thus got possession of the hill, and the next thing was
to hold it. I reflected for a moment, and then sent two of the
men back to Captain Simpson, with a message to the effect that
I had obtained possession of the place without resistance, and
that if he would send me fifteen men, I would stay there, engaging
the enemy if they tried to recapture it. The men started
off, but lost their way in the darkness—they were some of those
town boys not used to scouting—and only one arrived at last;
the other went away round the whole line of the enemy, but got
back safely next day.

“I was thus left with only two men; and one of these I

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[figure description] Page 414.[end figure description]

posted as a vedette at the house, while I returned with the other,
whose name was Jackson, to the tree by the gate, where the
picket fire had been.

“It was now near day, and I began to be very anxious for the
appearance of the fifteen men. The messengers had had abundance
of time to go and return, but no men! I knew the programme
of the enemy now perfectly well. They were very
nervous at that time, and were always afraid of being `cut off,'
as they called it, and every night would leave their place on the
hill, retiring to the woods down in the rear to prevent being
`cut off' by scouting parties in the dark. When day returned,
they would resume their position at the picket tree.

“I knew, therefore, that everything depended upon getting my
reinforcement promptly, or it would be too late. I could not
hold the hill with one man against them all, and I didn't like the
thought of slinking off as I came, and making nothing by the
expedition. So I listened anxiously for sounds from the direction
of Falls Church, expecting every moment to hear the footsteps of
the men. I could hear nothing, however, and for the reason I
have given—that my messenger arrived so late. Capt. Simpson,
as he told me afterwards, promptly ordered out the detail I asked
for; but they did not arrive in time.

“All this time I was listening attentively in the opposite
direction, too. I knew that if my men did not come, the enemy
would at the first streak of daylight, and I did not wish to be
caught. I determined to `fire and fall back,' if I could not fight
them—and the night was so still that I could hear the slightest
sound made by a man long before he approached me. My plan
had been all arranged, counting on the arrival of the fifteen men,
and it was to place them in a cut of the road near the house—and
as the enemy came up, make the men rest their guns on the
bank, and pour a sudden fire into the flank of the column. I
knew this would rout them completely—and everything was
arranged to carry out the plan—but, as I said, the men did not
come. If I held the hill I would have to do so with two instead
of fifteen.

“Everything turned out as I expected. Just at the first blush

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[figure description] Page 415.[end figure description]

of day, while everything was yet hazy and indistinct, I heard the
enemy—tramp! tramp! tramp!—coming up the hill. The man
watching the house was two hundred yards off; and Jackson and
myself were, as I have said, at the gate near the tree, hid in the
tall corn. He was armed with a Minié musket, and I had the
same weapon, with a six-shooter besides.

“I leaned on the fence, crouching down and listening. The
tramp of the Yankees came nearer, and, in the dim light, I could
see a company of them, with an officer at their head, approaching.
When they were about ten yards off, and I could make them out
perfectly distinet, I whispered, `Now, Jackson!' and, resting
my gun on the fence, I took deliberate aim at the officer, and
fired, striking him in the breast. I then dropped my gun, and
poured into them the fire of all the barrels of my revolver, killing
a Sergeant, and wounding three men.

“Although badly wounded, the Lieutenant in command stood
gallantly, and shouted to the men, who had for the most part
broken, and were running:

“ `Halt there! Fire on the scoundrels! Halt, I say! Fire on
them!'

“Some of them turned, and I heard the click of the locks as
the guns were cocked.

“ `Look out, Jackson!' I whispered, and I crouched down
behind the fence. At the same moment a hot volley came tearing
through the tall corn, and cutting the blades over our heads.
I knew it would not do to let them discover that there were only
two men in front; so, having no more loads in my pistol, I thundered
out as though addressing a company who had fired without
orders:

“ `Steady, men! steady there, I tell you! Hold your fire!
Steady! Dress to the right!'

“This completely took them in, and made them believe that
they were ambushed by a large force. In spite of all the Lieutenant
could do, they broke and ran down the hill, leaving one
man—the Sergeant—dead behind them.

“The Lieutenant was carried off by some of the men, and taken
to a house not far from the spot. I was there soon afterwards,

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p521-441 [figure description] Page 416.[end figure description]

and they told me he was shot in the left breast, just above the
heart, and died of the wound.

“That was the first officer I ever killed, and the whole of the
story.

“Knowing that the enemy would soon return with a heavy
force to dislodge me, and that nothing was to be gained by remaining
there longer without reinforcements, I called to the
man at the house, and took up the line of march back to Falls
Church.

“If they had sent me the men, I could have held the hill; but,
as I told you, the messengers I sent got lost.”

I have continued to extract from Captain Darrell, at various
times, accounts of his life and adventures. A day or two since
we were talking about the earlier scenes of the war, and the
half-forgotten incidents which occurred before our eyes at the
time. To my surprise, I found that we had often been near each
other—that he had slept once by the battery to which I was attached;
and that, doubtless, I had seen, without noticing him,
however. The memories of the Captain were not without interest;
and following my theory that the traits and details of this
period should be collected now, I proceed to let the Captain
relate his adventures:

“I was in Bonham's command at Manassas before Beauregard
came there, and my regiment went along toward Centreville on
the very day the Federals took possession of Alexandria. We
stayed at Centreville some time, and then advanced to Fairfax.
Here I commenced scouting around, and kept at it until the
enemy made their advance on the 16th of July. They came in
heavy columns on the Flint Hill road, and Bonham fell back
quietly with only a few shots from his artillery. The men were

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[figure description] Page 417.[end figure description]

all in the breastworks, hot for a fight, which they all expected;
but they were marched out and back on the road to Centreville.

“I was out on the road to the left of Germantown with a
companion when their column appeared, and we were cut off.
We struck into the woods, made a circuit, and came out again
on a high hill above Germantown, on the turnpike, from which
we could see them rushing into Fairfax. They seemed to overflow
it in a minute, and we could hear their yells as they entered—
thinking the whole Rebel army had fled before them.
They were soon at Germantown, and burned most of the houses,
hurrying on in pursuit of Bonham toward Centreville. I
thought it best to get away from there as soon as possible, so I
went on through the woods, and arrived at Centreville about the
time you all ran your guns up on the hill there, to cover the
retreat. There I saw General Bonham, whom I knew very well,
and I told him I believed I would go out and scout around, to
try and find what the enemy were about. He said he would be
glad if I would do so, and I started off toward the Frying Pan
road, and heard them moving in every direction. I tramped
around for a long time, to try and make something out; but
finding I could not, I returned to Centreville. The army was
gone! and the enemy were pressing in just as I arrived. I
thought I was certainly gone; but I avoided them in the dark,
and pushed on toward Bull Run.

“I reached the high land just above the stream in an hour or
two, and remember meeting Captain, now Lieutenant-Colonel
Langhorne, whose company was on the side of the road, a part
of the rear-guard. I entered into conversation with him, and
he asked me to what command I was attached. I told him I
was an independent, scouting around on my own responsibility;
and he invited me to stay with him. So, after eating some of
his supper, I laid down on his blankets and went to sleep.

“I woke early, and went on toward Bull Run. As I was
going along, I saw a man on horseback ride across the field, and
remember looking at him and taking him for one of our own
men. I was stooping and picking blackberries at the time, and
took no particular notice of him, or I might have killed him,

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[figure description] Page 418.[end figure description]

and got his horse and accoutrements, which I needed very much
at the time. I allowed him to pass me; and when he got near
the small house on the hill, he called out to three or four soldiers
posted there:

“`Where is General McDowell?'

“`General who?' was the reply.

“`General McDowell!' he repeated. `Make haste! I am
looking for him!'

“`Halt! halt!' came from the soldiers, who caught up and
cocked their guns. The Yankee saw his mistake too late. He
wheeled his horse round, and dug the spurs into him, but at
that minute our men fired on him, and he fell to the ground,
dead.

“He proved to be General McDowell's quartermaster—I heard
his name, but forget it now. He had seven hundred and sixtyodd
dollars on his person, I was told.

“After that I went on toward Blackburn's Ford, and found
our men drawn up there in line of battle on the south bank.
Soon after I got over General Longstreet rode down, smoking a
cigar, and I heard the enemy coming.

“`Who will volunteer to go across and observe their movements?'
asked Longstreet.

“`I will, General,' said Captain Marye, of Alexandria.

“`Go on, then, Captain,' said Longstreet. `Hurrah for the
Alexandria Guards!'

“`The Alexandria Rifles, General,' said Captain Marye, turning
round, and bowing.

“`Hurrah for the Rifles, then!' said Longstreet; and Marye
advanced across the Run with his company.

“It was soon after this, I think, that the artillery fight commenced
between our batteries and those of the Federals. Ours
were in the plain there, on the slope of a little rising ground, and
the enemy's were near the house, on the other side, with all the
position on us. Our batteries were fought beautifully, and I remember
how excited we all were, watching the shells passing over
us—we could see them. When some of our horses were killed
we all felt deeply for the artillery; but it was pushed forward,

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[figure description] Page 419.[end figure description]

and got out of range for the moment. The Yankees soon fell
back, and we stayed there, waiting for them to renew the attack.
The men were terribly excited, and fired at everything over the
Run, whether it was an enemy or not. Some fresh regiments
came down, and they were sitting with their guns up, expecting
every minute to begin, and eager for the enemy to approach.
They would fire in the air, or at anything they saw; and sometimes
whole companies would rise up, and blaze away right into
the opposite bank.

“This made me mad. I was as sick as I could be, with the
measles breaking out all over me, and was going about with my
face red and swollen, my shirt-bosom open, and my head feeling
curiously. The men noticed me as I was rambling around, and
seemed anxious to know who I was. I mixed with them, but
said nothing until they began to throw away their ammunition,
firing into the wood; when I halloed at them, and told them to
stop that.

“`There are no Yankees there,' I shouted to them; `don't be
wasting your cartridges in that way, men!'

“But they took no notice of me, except one or two, who asked
me where I was from. I told them I was from South Carolina,
and then they went on firing. The thing looked so ridiculous
to me that I began to laugh, and just at that moment a whole
company blazed away into the pines across the run. I jumped
up, clapped my hands, and shouted enthusiastically;

“`That was a glorious volley, men!—perfectly glorious! You
are the boys! and that fire would have killed at least three thou
sand Yankees—if there were any within three or four miles of
you!'

“They laughed at this, and just as they stopped a shell came
from the enemy and cut off the top of a large tree under which
I was standing. It crashed down, and a big limb struck me on
the side of the head and knocked me over. Another piece, I
heard, broke the back of a man in one of the companies. When
they saw me knocked down they all laughed worse than ever,
and shouted out:

“`Look out, South Carolina! Take care of yourself!'

-- 420 --

[figure description] Page 420.[end figure description]

“I thought I would move on. After that I got so sick that
I could not keep up, so I went along toward Mitchell's Ford
above, and fell in with some friends of General Bonham's staff.
His headquarters were just in rear of our batteries there, and
they pitched me a small tent—the only one put up—and I lay
down, not minding the heavy cannonading, I was so sick. I stayed
there until the 21st, when I could stand it no longer, and determined
to get up and strike for the battle-field on our left. I went
in that direction and fell in with a young cousin of mine, Edward
Farley, who had come down from the University of Virginia to
see the fun. We went along together, and I got on the field
just when Evans, and Bee, and Bartow were fighting to the left
of the Stone bridge. I was so weak that I could hardly stand
up; and my cousin advised me to take a drink of whiskey, as he
had some along with him. I did not wish to do so at first, but
he persuaded me that it would be best for me; and I poured out
a tin cup half full of the whiskey and swallowed it. I had never
taken a drink before in my life—and I have never taken one
since. I was so weak and exhausted, and my stomach was so
empty, that it made me as tight as anything! I went charging
around, half out of my senses, and tried to make the men stand
to the work. They were falling back, however, when all at once
Beauregard came galloping up, and rode up and down the line,
making the men a speech, and urging them not to give up their
firesides and altars to the foe. They answered with shouts all
along the line, and soon afterwards charged, and drove the enemy
back toward Sudley. After that the battle was a rout. Our
cavalry came down at a gallop, and the enemy took to flight.

“I staggered on after them, and saw them running. I ran on
too, firing at them, until I got nearly to Centreville. I was then
obliged to stop and sit down, with my back to a tree, on the
roadside, as I was too sick and weak to proceed. The effect of
the liquor had worn off, and I remained there half dozing, until
I heard cavalry coming along. It was Captain Powell's cavalry,
from Alexandria—one of the first companies organized—and
as they swept by me at a gallop, I shouted:

“`Go it, boys! Give it to `em.'

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[figure description] Page 421.[end figure description]

“They passed on, and as soon as I was strong enough I got
up, and went towards a house near by, to get something to eat.
They did not want to let me in, but I had my pistol, and told
them that I was sick, and could go no further, and I intended to
come in whether or no. I accordingly entered, and among a
crowd there found Edward, who had been separated from me in
the battle, and followed on as I had.

“I lay down on a sofa, and sent out for something to eat,
which I soon got. I then went to sleep, and when I woke next
morning was a great deal better. I left the house, took the road
to Fairfax, and never stopped until I got to the Chain Bridge, on
the Potomac, where I proposed to Captain Powell to cross and
capture the pickets on the other side. That's all I saw of the
battle of Manassas.”

I shall conclude my article with one other adventure of
the worthy Captain. We had been discussing the highly interesting
subject of saddles, the merits of the “McClellan,” the
desirability of a good new one of that pattern, and the criminal
negligence of those who had passed by whole piles of
them and never secured one, when the Captain said he had a
very fine one which had “belonged to the gamest Yankee he
ever saw.” There was something in that phrase which I have
quoted, strongly suggestive of some belle aventure, and I therefore
made an assault upon the Captain to compel him to relate
the incident.

He did so, as usual, after repeated urgings; and here
is the narrative as nearly as possible in the words of the
narrator:

“I got the saddle when we were advancing after the battle of
Cedar Run, last August. I went with a part of the command
to which I was attached, down the road which leads from Culpeper
to Kelley's Ford, on the Rappahannock. Just before you
get to the river there are two gates, within a short distance of
each other, which you have to pass through. There is a fence on
the right side of the road, and another gate in that, opening into
a field. On the left there is no fence—open field and a high hill.

“Well, I took two men and went scouting down that way,

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[figure description] Page 422.[end figure description]

and came to the first gate. I opened it, and rode through, but
before the men could follow it shut to. All at once I saw in
front of me three Yankees on foot—two privates and a sergeant,
as I soon found. The sergeant was carrying a bucket.

“As soon as I saw them I called to them to surrender.

“`Throw down your arms!' I called out, pointing my pistol
at them, `or you are dead men!'

“The privates threw down their muskets, but the sergeant
drew a pistol and was about to fire on me, when I covered him
with my pistol, and said:

“`Now, you just fire, you scoundrel, and I'll kill you!'

“He hesitated for a moment, but finally lowered his pistol,
and said he would not have surrendered to one man if I had not
taken him at a disadvantage. I turned over the prisoners, and
went on. As I moved on, Mosby and Hardeman Stuart came
by, and pushed on to the high hill on the left, to reconnoitre. I
had not gone far before I saw three Yankee cavalry in the field
to the right, riding straight down towards us, evidently intending
to pass through the gate in the fence. I had my two men with
me, and as I wanted to overpower the Yankees, I beckoned to
Mosby and Hardeman, who were in sight, and they came riding
down. We then opened the gate, and all five of us pushed
towards the three Yankees, who, instead of running, as I expected,
drew up in line to receive our charge—the rascals! We
galloped at them, and they held their fire until we got within
five yards of them, when bang! bang! bang! went their revolvers
at us. We replied, and in a minute were right in the middle
of them with the sabre, ordering them to surrender.

“They obeyed, and I thought the fight was over, when suddenly
one of the scoundrels put his pistol right in my face and
fired—so close that the powder burned my ear; here is the mark
still. As he fired he dashed off, and two of our men pushed to
cut him off from the gate. I was mad enough, as you may
understand; and I rode at him, full speed. When he saw himself
thus surrounded, he lowered his sabre which he had drawn,
and called out that he would surrender. I rode up to him, and
shook my fist at him, gritting my teeth

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“`You scoundrel!' I exclaimed. `You black-hearted villain!
to fire on me after surrendering! I am almost tempted to
blow your brains out with my pistol!'

“He made no reply; and telling the men to take charge of
him I turned to ride back. I had not gone ten steps before I
heard a sudden cry behind me, and looking hastily round, I saw
one of the men falling from the saddle, with one arm thrown up,
as if to ward off a blow. He had tried to do so, but failed.
The infernal scoundrel of a Yankee had, after surrender, suddenly
cut the man over the head with his sabre, and running
against the other, nearly knocked him from his horse!

“Instead of running, the rascal then turned his attention to
me, and made a wipe at me as his horse darted by, which just
grazed my head. He might perhaps have got off if he had
tried, then; but he came at me again, riding right down with his
sabre ready.

“I saw my chance, then, and just as he was driving at me, I
levelled my pistol and fired. The ball struck him just under
the left ear, and passed entirely through his head.

“He fell from his saddle, and I caught his horse, which was
a very fine one. That was the gamest Yankee I ever fought
with, and his saddle was a first-rate one—a bran new `McClellan;'
and if you want one I will give it to you, as I have as
many as I want.”

So terminated the Captain's story of the “gamest Yankee.”
It may interest those who like the clash of sabres and the crack
of fire-arms—on paper.

Among the most interesting narratives which I extracted, by
adroit urging, from my friend Captain Darrell, was that of the
hard fight which he had at Langly, and his capture. Let me
here again, in justice to the Captain, guard the reader from

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supposing that these relations were volunteered by the hero of them.
Such was by no means the case. It was only after skilful man
œuvring and repeated urging that the worthy was induced—
with many preliminary protests, accompanied by a determined
twisting of his mustache—to enter on the subject of his adventures.

This explanation is due to him. Nothing is more perilous
than what is called egotism. When a man sits down to narrate
his own performances, or when he relates them orally to a
circle of listeners, the instinctive feeling of the reader or the listener
is prone to be one of doubt. Human nature is so curiously
constituted that whatever even appears egotistical is offensive;
and the revenge which men take for being silenced or eclipsed,
is to question the truth of what the egotist utters. So sure is
this proclivity to underrate what throws us into the shadow, that
Bulwer, in one of those books in which he shows so much keen
observation of the world, makes the company rejoice when a
profound talker has left the room, and think far more highly of
Mr. Pelham, the exquisite, who only said, “Good!” and “Very
true!” as others talked. If Captain Paul Jones talked for two
hours steadily, all about his adventures, he would have many
persons to declare him a bore, and doubt whether he ever fought
the Serapis. If Marion spoke of swamp-encounters all through
an evening, there would be many to question whether he ever
mounted steed. Such is human nature.

The reader will please observe, therefore, that Captain Darrell
did not volunteer these statements. Instead of being an egotist,
and an incessant talker, he is really the most retiring and silent
of men. You may be with him for a month, and during the
whole of that time he will not once refer to any event of his
experience. He will talk with you quietly, upon this or that
subject, but never about his own exploits. I cannot too often
repeat, in justice to the Captain, that the narratives here given
were extracted from him by the process of direct interrogation.
Having the present highly praiseworthy end in view—that of
putting upon record some singular chapters of the war—I attacked
him, and drew forth his recollections, as water is drawn from a

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well, by working at the windlass. The adventures came out in
reply to my questions, and solely to gratify an evident curiosity
to hear them. If I give them to the reader, he will act with
great ingratitude in attributing either egotism or gasconade to
the worthy Captain.

With these few words of caution to the reader, I proceed to
let the Captain tell how he was captured.

“It is a long story,” he said, “but you have managed to set
me talking, and I suppose I may as well go on. My capture was
an accident—it ought never to have occurred. The way of it
was this:

“It took place about November, 1861; and at that time I was
scouting around, trying to find some opening to `go in.' When
one place got too hot for me, I went to another. I would work
around for some time, up by Dranesville; then near Vienna
and Falls Church; and then by Annandale, down to Occoquon.
The South Carolina boys—you know I came on with them—
used to tell me that I would certainly get caught; that I was
too rash and reckless; and they would not go with me any
more. But that was unjust. That has been said of me a
hundred times; but there is no man more cautions than I am.

“I had a scout on hand, and I got a man to go with me, whose
name was Carper. Also Frank Decaradeux, First Lieutenant of
Company G, 7th South Carolina—a noble fellow, who was killed
at Charleston in the fight lately. At Dranesville we got another
named Coleman, who is dead, too, I believe, poor fellow—and set
out on the scout.

“The enemy were then at Langly, with their pickets in front,
and we heard that they were going to make an expedition toward
Dranesville, where we had a picket post. Our intention
was to waylay the party, whatever its strength, and attack it
from the woods on the side of the road; then, during the confusion,
to make our escape in the thicket, if necessary. I was at
that time in first-rate spritis—hot for a fight—and I knew I could
depend upon my companions, especially Frank Decaradeux. So
we set out toward Langly, and when within a mile or so of their
pickets, took post in the woods where the road suddenly

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descended between high banks, and gave us an excellent opportunity to
ambush them as they approached.

“Well, we waited there two or three hours, and there was no
sign of an enemy. Then as night had come we concluded to
give it up for that day, and go across to a house which I knew
of, and get supper and lodging. We went there accordingly, and
had a good supper, telling the old man to have us a hot cup of
coffee at daylight, when we were going to try again. Soon after
day we left him in high spirits, and made for the main road
again. We had just come near, in the field, when I saw the head
of a column of Federal Cavalry, coming from the direction of
Dranesville. They had passed us in the night! At Dranesville
they had caught our pickets—Whitton and Hildebrand—and
about thirteen citizens, whom they were now carrying back to
Langly.

“My first thought was to get to the big pines where we had been
on the evening before; but this was impossible. The enemy were
so close upon us that if we started to run they would certainly
see us—and the pines were more than half a mile off. The only
thing I thought of was to take advantage of a rise in the ground,
cross the road, and get in some pine bushes—short second growth
about as high as a man—where I determined to open fire upon
them. We accordingly ran across as hard as we could, and passing
by a small house, a Mrs. Follen's, got in the bushes. The
enemy were coming on quickly and we held a council of war.

“`I'll tell you what, boys, it won't do for us to let them get by
without doing them some damage. They have been up there
robbing and plundering, and I for one intend to fire into them,
and die if necessary. But we can get off. They will think we
are a heavy force sent to ambush them; and in the confusion we
can get into the big pines below, where they never can catch us.'

“Decaradeux said he would stand by me, and the others did
too, at last—but they looked very pale. We looked carefully to
our arms and saw that all was right. We had guns, or carbines,
except Decaradeux, who carried a short revolving rifle, which had
got clogged up with the spermaceti on the cartridges. He worked
at it, and got it in order, however, and said he was ready.

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“The cavalry had now got within twenty yards of us, and at
the head of the column rode General Bayard, then Colonel, with
some staff officers: the prisoners were in the rear. As they
came within ten or fifteen yards I arose and said, `Now, boys!'
and we gave them a volley which threw them into tremendous
confusion. Whitton told me afterwards that the men trembled
in their very boots, and turned their horses to run—thinking
they were ambushed by the rebel army. Bayard shouted,
`Steady! steady, men!' and pushed forward—he was a brave
fellow—and I was ready for him. As he got within five yards
of me I fired and tore his coat skirt all to pieces—killing his
horse, which fell upon him. As he fell, some of the officers
whose horses had run on by, to the front, came galloping back;
and seeing one in uniform with straps, I fired and shot him
through the body, killing him.

“We might have got off in the confusion had it not been for
Mrs. Follen, who cried, `Oh! they are only four men!' Poor
thing, I suppose she was frightened. The enemy, as soon as they
heard this, rallied, and threw dismounted men into the bushes
after us; it seemed to me that they were down and in the pines
in one minute. Frank Decaradeux had been shot through the
right hand, and Coleman through the side. No time was to be
lost, and we made a break for the big pines, where I expected to
be able to escape. We could not reach them—the flankers
coming in and cutting us off—and soon found that we were
surrounded. I got separated from the rest, and was running
around trying to find an opening to escape, but they were all
around me. I could hear their howls as they closed in.

“`Here's the First Pennsylvania! Bully for us, boys! We
are the boys! We'll give 'em h—l!'

“It was like a pack of wolves. I had fired all my loads, and
stopped under a sapling to reload. I remember my feelings at
that moment perfectly. I never was so miserable in all my life
before. I had that feeling of desperation which you can imagine
a dog has when he is run into a corner, and glares up and snaps
at you. My hand did not tremble a particle, however, as I was
loading my revolver. I had a small flask, and I put in the

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proper amount of powder and rammed the balls home, and then
got up from the ground. Half-a-dozen of the enemy were
closing right around me, and as soon as they saw me they fired,
and I returned it. I could not find an opening to get out—I
was surrounded upon every side, and I didn't know what to do.
Every moment they were popping at me, only a few yards off,
as I doubled about, and I had eight balls in my clothes and the
cape of my coat, and one in my cap. At last I got into an open
space, towards the road, and saw a gap in the fence which one
cavalryman was watching.

“`Now is my chance,' I thought.

“And I made a rush straight at him. I had kept one load in
my pistol, and if I killed him, as I thought I could easily, I could
get his horse and then good-by to them! As I ran towards him
he raised his carbine and fired at me, but I did not mind that.
I was up to him in a minute, and put my pistol straight at his
breast and shot him out of the saddle. He fell, and I was just
about to catch the rein, when—I scarcely remember, but Hildebrand
told me, the cavalrymen rode me down, one of the men
striking me across the head with the barrel of his carbine. But
I think the hoof of the horse must have struck me as he jumped
over me—my left side was all bruised and bloody.

“When I came to my senses I was lying on my face, and the
first words I heard were, I remember perfectly:

“`Dead as hell, by—!'

“I raised my head a little, and finding I was not dead, they
collared me, and made me stand up, hustling me about from side
to side, and jabbering in every language. I got tired of being
held in this way, and clutched a carbine from one of them,
intending to club it, and hit right and left, but they got it away
from me. I remember there was one fellow with a cocked pistol
who seemed anxious to get at me, and the officers around
were laughing, and saying, `Let the Italian get at him! he'll
finish him!'

“`Put me out in that field with a pistol,' I said, `and your
Italian or any can try me!'

“They only laughed at this, and hustled me about, as they

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did poor Frank Decaradeux and Coleman, whom they had
caught. Carper got off. Decaradeux had lost his hat, like myself,
and had an oilcloth wrapped over his head, which made his
pale cheeks and black eyes like a girl's. They laughed at this
resemblance, and said, pointing at me:

“ `Who is that fellow there, with his hand in the breast of his
coat? He looks like he didn't care what the price of tobacco
was!'

“I had gotten dignified, however, and made no answer; and
soon after an officer rode up, and said:

“ `Captain Darrell, I am sorry to see you in this predicament.
Captain McKewn of General McCall's staff. I remember having
the pleasure of your acquaintance at the University of Virginia.'

“I bowed, and he asked me what had become of my cap.
I told him I had unfortunately lost it, but I observed one of
the men riding around with it. He went off and got me a fine
new one, and soon afterwards the fellow who wore my cap—it
was a red one—came prancing around.

“ `Hey!' he said to me, `you see I've got your cap, you d—d
rebel!'

“ `Yes,' I replied, `but you are only getting back your own
property. I got that from a Brooklyn Fire Zouave, and you are
entitled to it, I suppose. I killed the owner.'

“This was really the case. In the charge made by Colonel
Fitz Lee, near Annandale, a short time before, I had lost my
hat in running the enemy, and came nearly up with two of them
who had jumped the fence and were scudding through the pines.
I threw myself from the saddle over the fence, and aiming at
one of the Yankees, shot him through the breast. I called to
the other to surrender, but he turned round and levelled his carbine
at me, not more than ten steps off. I had no load in my
pistol, and would have been a dead man, had it not been for one
of my friends in the road, who fired on the Yankee just as he
took aim at me. The ball passed just over my shoulder, and
struck him in the face, and he fell. I took off his pistol-belt and
pistol; and as I had no hat, picked up his red cap and wore it.
This was the same cap which the fellow prancing round had on.

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“When we came near Langly, the General, McCall, came out
with his division, and I heard him say, that he had heard the
firing, and thought Bayard had been ambushed by the whole
rebel army.

“ `It was worth your while, general,' I said, `to bring out your
division to capture four men.'

“ `Who is this?' asked General McCall.

“ `Captain Darrell, one of the prisoners, General,' said an officer.

“The general ordered me to be brought to him, and asked me
who I was. I told him and he said:

“ `You are from the Confederate army, are you not, Captain?'

“ `Yes, sir,' I replied.

“ `What is their force in front of us?'

“ `General McCall,' I said, `you ought to know that that is
not a proper question to ask me; and that it would be highly
improper for me to give you any information upon the subject.
I am a soldier, sir, and know my duty too well for that.'

“He laughed and said no more; and then Colonel Bayard
came up, and talked with me a short time; he was not wounded.
He only asked what command I belonged to and then rode on.

“That evening we were put in a wagon, and carried to Washington—
Decaradeux and myself. I don't know what became of
Coleman. Here we were put in the third story of the Old Capitol,
and I soon understood that they were trying to make out
that I was a spy, and hang me as such. When they asked me
my name, I told them Captain Darrell, of General Bonham's
Staff, as General Bonham, who was an old acquaintance of mine,
had often urged me to accept a commission in the C. S. A., to
protect me if I was captured. He told me he could easily procure
one for me, as at that time they were making appointments
every day; but I replied that I would rather remain free, as
they might put me off in some fort somewhere, when I would
never lay eyes on a Yankee. He then told me to consider myself
his volunteer aide, on his staff; and accordingly I reported
myself as such, and was so published in the morning papers.

“I was constantly scheming how to escape while in prison,
but had crowds of inquisitive visitors coming in on me at all

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times, and pestering me to death. One day a big pompous army
surgeon came in and flourished around, with

“ `Well, Captain—hem!—you young fellows have got yourselves
into a bad serape—hem!'

“ `Not that I am aware of, sir,' I replied coolly. `How so?'

“ `Why, you came inside of our lines by night, and waylaid
our troops, against all the usages of civilized warfare, sir.'

“ `I was on a scout, like General Bayard,' I returned.

“ `A scout, sir!' he exclaimed, growing red in the face; `we
were on no scout, sir! we were on a reconnoissance, sir, with a
force of one thousand cavalry, sir!'

“ `Well, I was on a reconnoissance, too, with a force of four infantry
men. You came out to reconnoitre us, and we reconnoitred
you. The reconnoitring parties happened to meet on the road,
and my reconnoitring party got the better of yours.'

“This seemed to make him furious. He swelled, and swaggered,
and puffed, like a big turkey-gobbler, and tried to frown
me down, but it was not successful.

“ `Well, sir,' he said, `if you did get the better of us, you at
least are our prisoner, sir; and there are grave charges against
you, sir—very grave charges, sir!'

“I began to get mad, and asked him what he meant by that.

“ `I mean, sir,' he said, raising his voice and swelling out his
breast, `that you have shot a doctor, sir!—yes, sir; a DOCTOR, sir!'

“ `What doctor? Where did I shoot a doctor?'

“ `On the road, sir! He was a doctor, sir; the officer you
killed, sir! a non-combatant, without arms, in the performance
of his official duties, sir!'

“ `Oh! a doctor was he!' I said, `a doctor! Well, you doctors
ought to take care how you ride along at the head of columns
of cavalry in our country, and put yourselves in the way of balls,
in uniform, with straps on your shoulders. It is dangerous.'

“ `He was a doctor, sir; I say! a non-combatant! a DOCTOR,
sir; and you murdered him! yes, murdered him, sir!'

“ `Look here, sir,' I said; `this is my room and if you can't
behave yourself in it, I wish you to leave it. I wish to have
no more of your talk!'

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“ `Oh, well, sir! very well, sir!'

“And the doctor swaggered out. The next who came was a
Major, a little smiling finicky fellow, who was oily and polite in
his manner, and seemed uncommonly friendly.

“ `This is an unfortunate affair, Captain,' he began in a sympathizing
tone.

“ `Not very,' I said.

“ `I fear it is. You see, you were taken inside of our lines, and
it is probable you will be treated as a spy.'

“ `I reckon not, sir.'

“ `Why, so I hear, at least. Do you often enter our lines,
Captain?'

“ `I have done so, frequently.'

“ `In citizen's dress, Captain?' he inquired, smiling; and then
I saw what he was after, and was on my guard.

“ `No,' I replied, `I come with my arms to make a military
reconnoissance.'

“ `Do your officers enter our lines in this way often, Captain?'

“ `Well,' I said, `tolerably often. Colonel Fitz Lee made a
reconnoissance or scout, as you please, down beyond Annandale,
the other day, with a squadron of cavalry; and General Jeb
Stuart is particularly fond of such expeditions—indulging in
them frequently.'

He tried to make me commit myself in several other ways,
but finding he could not succeed, got up and left. After that I
told the sentinel at my door not to admit any more of them—
which, however, I lost by, as they would not allow my friends to
come and see me, or any of the delicacies they sent to reach me.
They permitted me to walk in the yard, however, but forbade the
prisoners to exchange any words or signs with those confined
above. One day I saw some ladies at an upper window of the prison,
who waved their handkerchiefs to me, and I took off my hat to
them. The sentinel told me it was against orders, but I replied
that in the South gentlemen always returned the salutation of
ladies—and I didn't mind him. One of the ladies then dropped
a little secession flag, made of riband; and I picked it up and
put it in my hat. The sentinel ordered me to take it out, but I

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refused; and told him to call his Sergeant. The Sergeant came,
and I told him to call the officer of the guard. I was going on
through the officer of the guard, and the officer of the day, up
to the Provost-Marshal; but the officer of the guard was an old
Lieutenant, who said, `Oh, everybody knows his politics. There
is no harm in letting him wear a riband in his hat.' So I
continued to wear it.

“One of the ladies was Mrs. Greenough, and she had a little
daughter of about twelve or thirteen, who used to run about the
prison and visit all the rooms, as the sentinel would not stop
such a mere child. She and myself became great friends, and
one day she brought me some flowers from her mother, and
whispered—for a guard was always present—that I would find a
note in them. I found the note, and after that carried on quite a
correspondence. I would make her a present of an apple, which
I had cut and hollowed out—putting a note in it, and then sticking
it together again. As the crowd were going down to dinner
one day, I slipped up instead of down, and went into Mrs.
Greenough's room, and had a long talk with her and another lady
who was with her; getting back again without discovery.

“I was always thinking of plans to escape, however, and three
schemes suggested themselves. Either to bribe the sentinel in the
back yard not to see us—or stab the sentinels at the outer and
inner door—or drop out of the front window by blankets torn
in strips, just as the sentry walked off on his beat, taking the
chances of his fire when he discovered us. I had two associates
in these plans, a prisoner named Conner, and Lieutenant Harry
Stewart. They preferred the first, while I liked the last best.
Our plan was to escape to Baltimore, where some friends were
fitting out secretly a tug with guns on it, to run down the bay,
and attack Burnside's transports. This played exactly into my
hand—to cut and slash, and blaze away at them—and I was so
anxious to undertake the expedition, instead of being sent down
tamely, with a white flag and all that sort of thing, to be exchanged
at Fortress Monroe, that when they told me I would be
regarded as a prisoner of war and soon released, I did not give
up my plan of escaping. It was all stopped, though, by Major

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Wood's coming into my and Decaradeux's room, and telling us he
suspected something, and had put Conner and Harry Stewart
into solitary confinement.

“Before I could arrange any new plan Decaradeux and myself
were exchanged, and I was free again. It was well I didn't
adopt Harry Stewart's plan. After a while he was allowed to go
back to his room, and having bribed the two sentinels in the
back yard, he attempted with Conner to escape one night. Just
as he raised the window to get out, one of the sentinels said,
`There is the d—d rascal—fire on him!' The man fired, and
shot him through the heart. I don't know what became of Conner.

“When I got to Richmond, I set off for Centreville to get my
trunk, intending to go out and join some friends in the South-west;
but General Stuart met me there; gave me a fine horse;
and told me if I would stay with him, he would show me some
sport.

“I accepted his offer; and have been with him ever since.”

Having given me the history of his adventures at Langly
and in Washington, Captain Darrell yawned, and persisted in
changing the subject. It was evident that he had made up his
mind not to talk any more at that time upon military matters;
and we accordingly passed to other topics.

He was here again yesterday, however, and I immediately
attacked him on the subject of his adventures.

He shook his head.

“You are making me talk too much about myself,” said the
Captain, “and I will get up the reputation of a boaster. One
of the greatest dangers with hunters, partisans, and scouts, is the
temptation to exaggerate, and tell `good stories.' All that I
say is true, and scouting with me is no more than hunting—as

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if it were after bear or deer—and I speak of it as such. But I
don't wish to be thought a boaster.”

It was some time before I could eradicate from the Captain's
mind the impression that his histories were listened to with sentiments
of cynical doubt. He yielded very gradually—thawing
very slowly before the warmth of my assurances; but at last I
succeeded in quieting his scruples, and getting him in a talkative
humour. One thing led to another; this incident brought forth
that; and finally the Captain was persuaded to give me the following
story of his adventures at Williamsburg.

As before, I give the narrative almost exactly in the words of
the speaker. It was as follows:

“I might as well commence at the beginning. On the retreat
from Yorktown, last spring, when our army was falling back to
the Chickhominy, I was with General Stuart, and the cavalry
were retiring by the Telegraph and Williamsburg roads, covering
our rear. These two roads make a sort of triangle; like the
two sides of the letter V, the point of the V being down the
Peninsula. The Williamsburg road was the left side of the V—
look at these two straws—and the Telegraph road the other.
There were two by-roads running through the triangle and connecting
the main roads. If you have a clear idea of this, you
will understand what took place easily.

“The cavalry were falling back in two columns upon the
Telegraph and Williamsburg roads, General Stuart being in
command of the force on the latter. He was anxious to keep
up thorough communications with the other column, however,
and as I was familiar with every part of that country, he sent
me with Captain Conner, of the Jeff. Davis Legion, who was
ordered to cut across with a party, leave pickets at openings, and
see that the cavalry on the Telegraph road fell back regularly in
good order—parallel with the other column, and neither too fast
nor too slow. Well, I proceeded with Captain Conner along
the sort of bridle path which was the lowest down of the two
which I have mentioned, as connecting the main roads, keeping
a keen look-out for the enemy, who, I was pretty sure, were all

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around us. The pines were too thick to see much, however—
you know what sort of a country it is—and we went on rather
blindly. About half way we met a countryman who was leading
a cow by the horns, and he told us that a party of the
enemy's cavalry had just passed along the other cross road
above toward the Williamsburg road.

“It occurred to me at once that our men on the Telegraph
road had fallen back more rapidly than the other column, and
unmasked the mouth of the upper cross road, which the enemy
had then struck into, intending to get into the Williamsburg
road and cut the General off. I stated my opinion to Captain
Conner, but he seemed to think differently. The cavalry which
the countryman had seen could not possibly be any but our
own, he said. I stuck to it, however, that they were probably
the enemy's; and as the countryman told us they were then
drawn up on the cross road, I offered to go and reconnoitre.
Captain Conner said he would go with me, and we started off at
a gallop through the pines toward the spot where the man said
they were.

“When I got within fifty yards I could see a party of cavalry
drawn up, as the countryman stated, and I was sure they were
Yankees. Captain Conner still adhered to his opinion, however,
that they were a part of our own force, and I told him I would
dismount, creep up, and determine the matter. He agreed; and
I got off my horse, threw the bridle over a stump, and crept
through the pine brush until I was within fifteen feet of them.
I saw the blue pantaloons and jackets plainly, and knew they
were Federals; so I crept back toward my horse. At the same
moment—it all occurred in a twinkling—I heard, `Halt! halt!
halt! halt! bang! bang! bang!' in front, and saw Captain
Conner, who had pushed on, certain that they were Confederates,
taken prisoner by the enemy. I had mounted, and the first
thing I knew I was in the midst of them—carried by my horse,
who became ungovernable—and I saw that my best chance
would be to make straight for the Williamsburg road, which was
not far, and if I got out, inform the General that a party was
lying in wait for him. I ran through them, followed by bang!

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bang! bang! from their carbines, and drove ahead into the Williamsburg
road—right plump against a column of the enemy's
cavalry, drawn up to charge the General, when he came near
enough. My horse ran right against a Yankee's, who wiped at
me with his sabre—for they all had their sabres drawn—and
just missed me. I was going so fast though that I passed straight
through the column, and seeing that the other side of the road
was lined with heavy undergrowth, I jumped off my horse and
ran in, leaving my horse to the Yankees.

“They banged away at me as I went in, but only a few had
their carbines ready, and they did not come near me. They
could not follow me, as the pines were too thick for any horseman
to enter. My object now was to get back to the General
and tell him of the attempt to cut him off. I thought I would
reconnoitre, however, first, and ascertain their force, so I crept
up to the edge of the bushes, and looked out. As I did so, I
saw them moving backwards and forwards, greatly excited,
with `Here they are!' `Look out!' but soon afterwards they
fell back, apparently looking for a better position. The next
thing I saw was Colonel Goode, of the Third Cavalry, coming
up the road, and I ran out and met him, felling him what I
knew, and stating that they were going to charge him. He
drew his men up on the right of the road so as to let the Yankees
charge by, and slash into them; and as I had no horse I
got into the bushes just in advance of the head of the column,
intending to shoot the commander of the Federal cavalry as soon
as I could see him well. I had my carbine and pistol, which I
had hung on to through all, and soon I heard the enemy coming,
shouting and yelling, right down on Colonel Goode.

“As they came within about fifteen yards, I levelled my carbine
at the officer in front, and pulled trigger; but the cursed thing
snapped. I had been skirmishing all day, and it had got dirty.
I fired my pistol into them, however, and the Federal Cavalry
halted, both sides sitting in the saddle and banging away with
earbines. Our men had the better of it, though, as the Yankees had
their sabres drawn, and we got the first fire on them, killing
several of them, I saw in the road afterwards. I wounded three

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or four myself, and was still popping at them when they concluded
to give it up, and go back. They turned round, and I
ran out, looking for a good horse, as several were running about
without riders. I got a good one, but found he was wounded,
and just then I saw a splendid black stallion, who took my eye
wonderfully. I tried to catch him—walking up and holloing
`woe!' to him—but whenever I got near, he trotted off, and I
missed him. I determined not to give it up, however—and I
kept following and trying to catch him until I was at least a mile
and a half back toward Williamsburg. I caught him at last,
mounted him, and started back toward the scene of the skirmish.
I remember feeling in fine spirits, and looking down at my
splendid stallion, who was full of fire and spirit—a big black fellow,
the very horse I wanted—admiring his neck and action. I
was still examining him, with my head down, as we went on at full
speed toward the spot where I expected to find Colonel Goode,
when suddenly I heard a quick `Halt! halt! halt!' `Here's
one of `em!' in front; and a carbine ball whizzed by me. I
looked up, and there was the enemy in the road instead of Colonel
Goode, who had fallen back. They had got reinforcements, and
brought up artillery to plant in the road—and I had run right
into them!

“There was only one thing for me to do, and that was to get
away from there as fast as possible. I accordingly wheeled round
and went back over the same road I had come, followed by a
dozen men, shouting `halt! halt! halt!' and firing at me. I
leaned over on my horse, and could hear the balls whizzing by me
every second—I afterwards found the accountrements, especially
the thick bundle behind the saddle, full of bullet holes. I would
have got away from them, but all at once my horse threw up his
head—a ball had passed clean through it. He still kept on,
however,—horses will go long with that sort of wound—but
another bullet struck him right behind my leg, on the left side,
and I felt him staggering. The party saw this, and set up a
whoop, which was rather too near. I saw that they would catch
me, if I depended on my horse, so I threw myself off and ran
down a little path in the bushes, by the side of the road, and did

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not stop until I was well concealed. They fired at me and
around several times, but as they were afraid of coming on
our infantry, they gave it up, and rode away.

“As soon as they were gone I came out of the bushes, and
went to my horse. He had fallen in the road, and I took from
him several articles strapped to the saddle, and left him to die.

“I knew now that the General would retire by the Beach
road, the only one left, and I determined to strike across and join
him, trusting to luck to get a horse somewhere. I accordingly
set out in that direction, trusting to my skill to flank the enemy's
pickets, which I knew I could do, and get through. My only
fear was that I would be shot by our own pickets, as it was now
getting dusk. I went on, through the woods and fields, avoiding
the enemy's fires whenever I saw them, and approaching our
lines. I had got very nearly through, when suddenly I came
upon three cavalrymen in the middle of the road, near a little
bridge I had to pass. I was sure they were Yankees, so I cocked
my pistol, and walked up to them boldly, saying in a loud commonplace
tone—

“ `Hem!—ah!—what company do you belong to, men?'

“ `Company A, sir.'

“This was not sufficient. Company A might be a Yankee company.
So I said,

“ `What regiment?'

“ `The Fourth.'

“This was no more definite than the other.

“ `Ah!' I said, `ahem—the Fourth, eh? Fourth New York,
I suppose?'

“ `No—the Fourth Virginia,' replied one of the men. I never
was more relieved in my life, and told them how things stood, and
which way to look out. I went on through the awful mud, and
when I had gone some distance met a regiment of Confederate
infantry coming down, with an officer on horseback at their
head, who was very much out of humour.

“ `Where is the post?' he was saying. `I don't believe it is this
way, and we must have come in the wrong direction. Where
is the regiment to be relieved?'

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“I recognised General Pryor, and said:

“ `I can tell you, General.'

“ `Hello! who's that!' he replied, looking through the dark,
`how did you know me?'

“ `By your voice. I remember meeting you at the Commercial
Convention in Knoxville, to which I was a delegate—and making
your acquaintance.'

“ `What is your name, sir?'

“I told him, and added,

“ `The regiment you are looking for is down in the fortifications,
in that direction; and though it will be going back, I will
act as your guide.'

“So I went with him, and finding some friends in the Nineteenth
Mississippi, commanded by Colonel Mott, a friend of mine,
I lay down, and went to sleep.

“On the next morning, I was still talking with my friends of
the Nineteenth, when chancing to look toward the front, I saw a
line of men advancing through the brushwood, who, I was certain,
were Yankees. It was drizzling, and no attack was expected,
though we knew that the enemy was right in our front;
and when I told the Lieutenant, in command of the company
I was with, that the men in front were certainly Yankees, he did
not believe it.

“ `They can't be,' he said; `they are a party of our own men
who have been out on a scout toward the enemy, and are coning
in.'

“As he was speaking, the line came on steadily, and I saw
distinctly the blue pantaloons, and oil-cloth capes thrown over
their heads as a protection from the rain. I knew from this
that it was the enemy, as none of our men had capes; and I
jumped up, carying to the men:

“ `They are Yankees! Fire, men! They are right on you!'

“ `Hold your fire!' shonted the Lieutenant, `don't shoot your
friends! It is some of the Seventh Alabama from our left.'

“ `There are no troops on our left!' I replied, `the Seventh
Alabama is on the right, and those people are Yankees! Fire,
men!'

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“And I ran out pointing at them where they were advancing,
within twenty yards, in the pines.

“ `Don't fire, I say!' shouted the Lieutenant to his men, `they
are friends!'

“Well, I'll take the responsibility, as far as I am concerned!'
I said; and levelling my carbine I took aim, and saw one of
the men fall. As soon as I shot, the whole party stopped suddenly,
as though they were astonished.

“ `Fire!' I cried to the Mississippians, `give it to' em, boys!'
Charge!'

“And I blazed away with my pistol as I ran toward them.
They did not wait for the expected charge—it turned out to be
only a company—and broke and ran. I followed, and came to
the man I had shot, who was dying. His gun was lying by
him, and I seized it, and fired on them as they were running;
but finding no one following me, I concluded I had better go
back. When I got to the fortification I found Colouel Mott
there, attracted by the firing; and showed him the gun I had
brought back, telling him that they were Yankees.

“ `Certainly they were,' he replied, `and the Lieutenant in
command ought to have known that there were none of our
troops on the left.'

“As I had nothing to do, I proposed to the Colonel that if
he would give me half-a-dozen men I would go and scout in
front, and bring him any information I could procure of the
enemy's movements. He agreed to this, and called for volunteers.
A dozen men stepped out, but I told him I did not want
more than six; and with these, I went along in the track of the
party of Yankees. I remember one of them was named Bryant,
a first-rate man, and he stuck to me all day, though he was
wounded; but he would not leave me.

“Well, I followed the party, marching the men in single file,
and looking out every moment for the Yankees. I came on
their trail at last, and thought I could hear the hum of their
voices just over a knoll in front of me. The woods there have
hollows in them, and you can get very close to a party of men
without knowing it if they are in one of them. There was a

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hollow of this sort just before me, and the hill sloped up in such
a way, that you could get right on them and not be perceived.
I crept up the side of the hill, going from tree to tree, looking
and listening. I could not see anybody, but I was sure I heard
the hum of voices not far off; and I determined to reconnoitre
and ascertain who the party were. I accordingly went cautiously
up the hill, to peep over, leaving my men behind.

“Just as I got near the top I heard the tramp of feet, and
could see the heads of the men coming up the hill. The officer
in command was walking in front, and before I knew it he was
right on me, within three yards.

“ `Dress up to the right!' he cried quickly to his men.

“ `Dress up, yourself, sir!' I shouted to him, suddenly.

“And as I spoke, I levelled my carbine at his breast, fired,
and shot him through the body. Before the enemy had recovered
from their surprise, I shouted back, as if I was speaking to
my company:

“ `Charge 'em, men! Fire on 'em! Char-r-rge!'

“And I set the example by firing my pistol as fast as I could
at their heads, which was all I could see above the hill. They
fired a volley at me, but their position was too unfavourable,
and the bullets went whizzing high up in the trees. My men
came up promptly, and we all took trees and commenced skirmishing
with them, neither side advancing, but keeping up a
scattering fire all the time.

“The captain, when I had shot him, sat down on the ground,
and remained there leaning his shoulder against the trunk of a
tree. The tree I had dodged behind was not far off, and we
carried on a conversation for some time; I suppose about half
an hour. I asked him why he had come down to the South,
and he said he wished now that he had stayed at home. He said
a good many things, but I don't remember them now. His
name was a singular one; he told me what it was, and I've got it
somewhere; his company was the 47th Sharpshooters, New York.

“I had shot away all my ammunition, and I got up and went
to him, asking him for his pistol. He took hold of the belt, and
tried to unbuckle it, but was too weak.

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